Homecoming
by flowerpicture
Summary: Brendan's released from prison after five years and all he wants is Ste back in his life, only Ste's not so welcoming.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: So I was going to post this fic all in one go like I did with Forbidden, but the more I write of it, the more I'm rapidly losing confidence in it. It's a slightly different style to my usual writing and I can't help thinking it's all a bit rubbish! So I decided to just post the first chapter now and if it doesn't go down well, at least I know so I can make changes to the fic as a whole.**

::: :::

The air smells cleaner out here. It's the same air as behind the walls but out here there's no limit to it—he can breathe the air here or he can walk five miles and breathe the air there and no one, not one single person, can stop him.

He stands in the car park of the place he's resentfully called home for the past five years and sucks in a deep lungful. Feels good. More refreshing than an ice-cold beer—although that's next on his list.

He hasn't told anyone he's getting out today. He's been locked up with too many people for five years, everyone wanting to know his business and get in his space. He needs time, now, before he has to look into the eyes of someone who knows him. No one's here to pick him up, to transition him, as his therapist called it. It's just him, and the fresh air of freedom, and the rest of his life.

He walks through the main gates, heart in his throat as he crosses the threshold, and he leaves. He's got his small bag of belongings slung over one shoulder and a crisp twenty-pound note in his back pocket. It's enough to get him to town, to a phone, to a beer.

It takes him half an hour to make it to a main road and he's not entirely sure where he's going, if he's heading farther away from civilisation or closer. He stops by the traffic and sticks his thumb out and ten minutes later a man in a locksmith's van stops. He thinks it's ironic, although he doesn't answer the man when asked what he's smiling about.

The trip into town takes longer than he would like thanks to the traffic but eventually the locksmith drops him off down a side lane of the high street and he heads to the nearest pub. A pint of Guinness and the use of a payphone later and he's relaxed enough to sit by the window and watch the world go by, tapping his fingers on the table to the old Blondie song playing in the background. Eventually, after two hours or so and another pint, he sees Jim pass by the window and he sits up straight to welcome him, an easy smile on his face because what the fuck doesn't he have to smile about now, in his freedom.

Jim gets them both a round and they chat for a while and when Jim asks him if he's okay he says yes, because he is, he really is. Jim gives him an envelope full of money and tells him it'll be a few days before his accounts are reactivated and they part with a handshake. "What's next for you now then?" Jim asks him, and he doesn't know really, not yet, except for one thing, one obvious thing, and the wry smile on Jim's face says he knows. "Well take this," Jim says, handing him a new mobile phone still in its box. "We need to stay in contact." The wedding ring glints and he congratulates Jim, who grins and blushes and leaves the pub flustered.

Brendan gets the boat to Ireland. He spends days with Cheryl getting fussed over and spoiled until he can't take it anymore and he bids her a fond goodbye. "Will you be seeing him?" she asks before Brendan gets on the train and he wants to say yes, yes, as soon as possible, but instead he shrugs because he doesn't know, it's not in his hands, although the well of hope is strong and rising in his chest and he holds onto that.

He spends two weeks with his kids, as much as they're not kids anymore. Declan's a man full grown and it takes Brendan's breath away. He's seen him, a handful of times, once Eileen realised she wasn't helping anyone by not letting them visit; but there's a difference between looking at a growing-up Declan across a table during visitation and looking at him living his life as an adult. He has university and a houseshare and a car and a girlfriend and a job, and he pays his way in life and meets deadlines and lives by a schedule. It's disarming, and Brendan's in awe of him, his life held together better than Brendan's ever was. Paddy's a teen and doesn't everyone know it—stroppy and surly but with a glint in his eye and the gift of the gab and he makes Brendan laugh more in two weeks than he has in the last five years combined and he's grateful for it. Eileen's not sure of him, but Brendan didn't expect her to be, although she's civil and an approximation of friendly and she doesn't make it difficult for him to spend his hours with the boys. She's defrosted a bit by the time he's due to leave and she smiles when he comes to say goodbye. "It's changed you," she says. "You're not the man I knew."

He is, he's exactly the same, but five years and the loss of everything he holds dear made him evaluate the importance of life and love and what it means to him to start over with a clean slate. His therapist can take the credit for a some of it, but a lot of it is five years spent living inside his own head and picking everything apart until it all made sense and gradually, over time, the light filtered into the shadows and he sees clearly now; not a new man, but one who isn't guided by the past any longer. That's his plan, anyway.

The boat takes him back to England and Jim meets him in his own car, gives him the keys, and Brendan drives them back to Hollyoaks, drops Jim off outside the house he owns with Carmel and heads into the village.

He doesn't really know how he feels, getting out of the car and walking to the centre of the village and looking around. This place was the very heart of him for so long and yet he'd give anything to leave now. But he'll stay, of course he will, because this place is Steven and the future with him he's going to try to claw back, whatever it takes.

The deli's not a deli anymore. It's an off license. He doesn't recognise the lad—student, by the looks of it—working there and neither does this lad know who Steven Hay is when Brendan asks. Brendan thanks him anyway and heads out and for a brief minute he looks up at the club. It's still a club, which is of some comfort, but it creates a weird feeling in his gut—half desire to stride inside and reclaim it, half desperation to never see the inside of it again. The place holds so many memories, good and bad, sensational and devastating. It's where it all began, and it's where it all ended, and now it just sits there, renamed and repainted, as if it wasn't his anchor to the world, to this world, and the man who lit it up.

He goes to Steven's flat, still so much of a dump that he's surprised the building's still standing. He still has the key hooked onto the set given back to him with his belongings but he doesn't use it, doesn't have the balls to stride back in as if he belongs there when he has no idea if that's even close to the truth.

It takes him minutes to knock. He raises his fist so many times it almost becomes a workout, and the words he wants to say swim around in his head until they're colliding and mixing up and he's not so sure anymore if he makes sense even to himself. Doesn't know how he's going to react when he sees Steven's face or even if he'll be able to say anything at all past the lump in his throat and the hammering of his heart.

"Man up," he mutters to himself, and blows out a long breath to calm his nerves.

He feels ridiculous, almost as much as he feels as if this is the most important moment in his life so far, the moment Steven opens this door and shows Brendan—just his eyes alone enough—what he thinks about seeing him now, after all this time, if there's any hope there.

He's so worked up on the adrenaline and nerves and fear and excitement that his heart crashes down hard into his gut when it's not Steven who opens the door, but a slim, dark-haired man in his early thirties. There's nothing familiar about him at all, although Brendan can see why Steven might be attracted to him—soft eyes, sharp cheekbones, an uncomplicated smile. Of course, none of this helps with the knowledge that there is another man in this flat, in his place, in his bed, in the heart of the man he's still living for.

"Can I help you, mate?"

He has a friendly tone, but there's a suspicion in his eyes now, because Brendan's just standing there, staring at him. The man doesn't know how Brendan's world has just dropped away beneath him.

"Sorry," Brendan says, and then he clears his throat. "I was just—never mind."

He turns to leave, because he can't walk into this, can't face knowing he's been replaced. He's a coward, and he stands by being a coward. There's no pride in him when it comes to this, and to Steven.

"Wait—" The man lifts his hands, half shrugs. "You knocked on my door for something."

"Yeah." He scratches his forehead, and he considers, a snap decision. At the very least he could make sure Steven's all right; at the very least, he could let Steven know he's all right. He might not care, but he deserves that at least. "I was looking for the man who lives here. Steven Hay."

"Steven…" The man furrows his brow, looks down at the ground in thought. Brendan's stomach jolts with hope. "Was he the bloke who lived here before? Uh…blond, kinda small, had a couple'a kids?"

"Yeah," Brendan says, trying to keep his voice neutral, because this man doesn't know Steven, and while it throws up a mystery, this man doesn't know Steven. It's not over yet, not before he even had a chance. "Yeah, that's him."

"Moved out about two years ago, mate."

"Right." Brendan nods, smiles. "Any idea where I might find him now?"

"No clue, sorry. I only met him the once when I came to look at the place."

Brendan thanks him and leaves, heads back to the village. He's not concerned—he would have heard from someone, Cheryl or Mitzeee or anyone, if anything had happened to Steven. He knows Steven's fine; he's just moved. His only concern now is finding him, and what he will say when he does so.

He's walking back past the off license and thinking of his next move when someone comes out of the shop abruptly and with no warning and collides into him. He makes an oomph noise on impact and takes a hasty step back.

"Watch it—" says the man who knocked into him, and then, "Oh my god."

Brendan smiles. "Darren."

He looks older, weathered, and his eyes are widening now at the sight of him.

"Brendan—you're. Jesus."

"Yep, in the flesh." Brendan spreads his hands, not really sure what to say. He and Darren had their moments in the past; never friends but never enemies, and occasionally he looked upon this man with a degree of fondness. "Surprise?"

"You haven't—I mean." Darren's voice is lowered and his gaze darts around them.

"What?"

He licks his lips, and he leans in closer even as his head rears back, as though he's not sure if he should be this near or far, far away. "You didn't escape."

Brendan blinks. "Yeah. Yeah, I did, Darren. And now I'm walking around in broad daylight in the place I was arrested, where everyone knows me."

"Still got that Brendan Brady charm, I see," Darren says, scowling and reddening all at the same time.

"You either have it or you don't." He tries another smile, but it falls flat. Darren is the very epitome of uncomfortable standing here in his presence and it unnerves him. He's just a guy talking to someone he once knew; it shouldn't be an event, although he's not oblivious to how he's likely to make people feel now, how they'll react to him, considering everything. "How's the family?" he attempts, because he can be normal, and he can make small talk, and everything is fine.

"What?"

"The family," Brendan says, a hint of impatience in his tone. "Nancy. The kids. Your dad."

"They're…fine?" Darren's still looking around, eye contact with Brendan lasting nanoseconds at most.

Brendan sighs.

"You know I'm not gonna kill you, right?"

"Last time I saw you," Darren says after a moment of consideration, "you were confessing to about fifteen different murders."

He can't help the wince. He'd forgotten Darren was there, holding Steven back that night. The only crystal-clear image he's kept from those moments is Steven's face, and the sickening anguish displayed on it. "Bit of an exaggeration," he says anyway, because it is. The whole thing is bad enough without adding extra weight to it.

"You got out quick."

"For a mass murderer?"

"Yeah."

"Funny that." His patience ends, and judging by the fear flickering in Darren's eyes, he's aware of it. There's no point dragging this out; Brendan's wasted enough of his life and every minute counts now, more than ever. "Listen, do you know where I can find Steven?"

Darren grimaces and scratches at his brow. "Uh…"

It puts Brendan on edge. "What?"

"Nothing. No. I don't know where he is." He gives an apologetic smile. "He moved away a couple years ago."

So not just out of the flat, but out of the village. It's not what he expected, and it throws up a lot of questions. This place was Steven's home for so long.

"You don't know where he went?"

"Why would he tell me?"

"You knew the guy for years," Brendan says, narrowing his eyes. From his experience, no one can sneeze in this village without everyone finding out about it within the hour. He doesn't understand how it's possible for someone like Steven, such a staple of this village, to move away, and not have Darren Osborne know about it—the guy who is, or at least was, the font of all gossip.

Darren's squirming now, and Brendan's suspicion is edging into irritation. "Yeah but we were never really—Tony!" he says suddenly, looking past Brendan and pointing. "Ask him. He'll know." He looks so relieved to pass the baton that Brendan almost feels sorry for him.

He looks over his shoulder. There's a restaurant there again, and Tony's out front of it, laying cutlery on tables. "Tony, yeah…" he murmurs, because that makes sense, more sense than Darren. "Thanks."

"No problem…" Darren mumbles, and then he hurries away without looking back.

Brendan laughs softly and mirthlessly to himself. Anyone would think he's diseased.

Tony sees him coming, and while he stiffens a little, he doesn't stop what he's doing, doesn't rush back inside, doesn't give off any indication he's alarmed by Brendan's presence at all. Brendan likes him more than Darren already.

"Brendan," Tony says once Brendan's close enough. He glances up only briefly from the knife he's polishing with a stark-white cloth. "I would say it's good to have you back, but—"

"Let's not pretend you didn't miss me," Brendan drawls, stopping and crossing his arms over his chest. "Where's Steven?"

Tony raises an eyebrow at him, the corner of his mouth quirking. He's got lines around his eyes, patches of grey at his temples. Brendan heard about the cancer; all things considered, the man looks good.

"If he hasn't told you where he is, Brendan, then I don't—"

"Tell me."

Tony heaves a sigh, puts the cutlery and cloth down and stands up straight to look Brendan in the eye. "I don't know."

"You don't know."

"No, he didn't tell me."

"How could he not tell you? Did he vanish into the goddamn air?" He's snapping, but he can't help it. This is Steven, not some random no-mark who put no stamp on this village. "Jesus Christ," he huffs, scrubbing a hand over his brow.

"He didn't tell anyone, all right?" Tony's voice is softer now, vaguely sympathetic. "He just upped and left one night. One day he was here, and the next…"

"This is insane. People don't just vanish."

"Yes they do," Tony says reasonably.

"Well he doesn't. Someone has to know where he is."

"Maybe he doesn't want to be found, Brendan," Tony says, his tone maddeningly calm. "Especially not by you."

"How about we let him tell me that, yeah?" He doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to be forced to examine the truth of it. "Meanwhile, any information you can give me…"

Tony considers him for a long moment, stares him right in the eye and scrutinises him like he's not looking at a murderer.

"Sinead," he says.

"Sinead?"

"Diane O'Connor's daughter. She lived with Ste until he left." He shrugs, and he picks up his cutlery, and the tension in his face implies he's not sure if he's just said the right thing. "Maybe she knows."

Brendan's more than confused, has no idea what this Sinead ever had to do with anything, but it's a lead, and he'll take it. "Right. Where—"

"Your old flat," Tony says, and there's a hint of a smirk on his face now.

Brendan's heart skips a beat.

"What?"

"She took over your old flat with her daughter and boyfriend after she moved out of Ste's."

"Thanks," he says. He looks up at the restaurant. "This is nice."

"Best food in Chester," Tony says, puffing out his chest.

"I don't doubt it."

He never had any intention of revisiting this flat. The last time he was here, his dad occupied it. Once upon a time it was his haven, his sanctuary. Now it's just a cage of bad memories.

The girl, Sinead, opens the door—Brendan remembers her, albeit vaguely. She has hair piled on top of her head and artfully applied makeup on her face and she's a beautiful girl, this Sinead, and for half an instant he wonders if she managed to turn Steven, before he realises how ludicrous that sounds.

Her eyes narrow when she looks up at him. "What're you doing here?"

She's got a strong northern accent, but it doesn't offend him. He has an affection for strong northern accents.

"Looking for Steven."

"You're a bit late," she says, tutting. "He left town ages ago."

He heaves a sigh. "So I keep hearing, and I'm quickly losing my patience—"

"He was waiting for this day for so long, you know," she interrupts, and there's a hardness in her eyes now, a glint of protection or accusation or loyalty—something that tells him she's prepared to fight Steven's corner. A swell of appreciation for her rises in his chest, before the clarity of her words hits him and makes his heart sink. "He never really admitted it, only when he was drunk sometimes, but…" Her expression morphs into a scowl, her tone growing heavier. "His whole life revolved around the day he would see you again."

He swallows, and he resists the urge to walk away, hide from it all. "Then why did he leave town where I can't find him?"

"Got his head together in the end, didn't he?" she says, like he should know this, like it's obvious. "Realised what he needed to be doing for himself. And it weren't waiting for you."

He feels reenergised all of a sudden, desperate. "Tell me where I can find him."

She shakes her head, dismissive. "I can't."

"So you know then." It makes his stomach lurch.

"Yeah, I know," she says after a moment of thought, her tone and expression guarded. "We've stayed in touch."

"Good. That's good." There's nervous energy thrumming through his veins now, anticipation and excitement and fear. "I need to see him."

"He doesn't need to see you," she says bluntly. "You proper messed him up, Brendan."

"I would apologise for everything that happened, but you're not the one who needs to hear it."

"That's what you're gonna do, is it? Apologise to him?"

"I'm gonna make things right." It's all he's been able to think about. Ever since the moment he was given his release date, his every waking thought has been consumed with this, with getting to Steven, putting everything to rights, how it should be.

She rolls her eyes. "Good luck with that."

"Thanks," he says. "Come on. I admire your loyalty to him, I really do, but you don't need to protect him from me. I'm not the man I was when I left."

"You could be lying through your teeth right now," she says, and she has a point, a good one, but he has no time for it now. He's wasting every minute stood here.

"Sinead. It's Sinead, right?"

"Right."

"You can tell me where he is right now or you can have me knocking on your door every hour on the hour for however many days or weeks it takes for you to give in."

She blinks, eyebrows shooting up. "My fella won't like that."

"I just got out of prison for killing people," he says, and he doesn't like it, playing this card, but it's the only leverage he has. She can hate him, the whole world can hate him; none of it matters, but for one. "Your fella is the least of my concerns."

She huffs, smoothes her hair back with both hands. He's stressed her out, but he's okay with it. "I don't have his number. He changed it recently and I've not got the new one from him yet."

"That's fine, whatever. An address?"

"I'm not telling you where he lives," she says, her tone indicating he's insane for even asking.

"Look—"

"I can tell you where he works." She deflates as she says it, conceding when she knows she shouldn't.

His heart leaps into his throat.

"That'll do, yeah. Where is it?"

"He moved down south two years ago. Amy got a job there and he followed her…" She wanders away from the door, back inside, and he stands there impatiently, waiting. A few moments later the door opens further and a little girl appears, staring up at him with wide eyes. He stares back.

Sinead returns, ushers the girl inside and hands Brendan a business card. "Here. It's a restaurant. He's a chef there."

"Thank you," he says, a powerful kind of relief flooding his body as his hand closes over the card. He nods in the direction of where the little girl went. "She's beautiful."

"She's Ste's goddaughter," she says, pride in her tone, something like a challenge. "She calls him Uncle Stevie."

He smiles, genuine with it. "Stevie. That's cute."

He drives straight through the afternoon, stops only once for petrol and a bottle of water and to call Jim to let him know he'll be away for a while should he need him. His sat nav leads him to a bustling high street at just past seven in the evening and he parks, leaves everything in the car, things he's accumulated over the past couple of weeks—new clothes, toiletries, a laptop. His hand shakes around the keys as he locks the car and his heart's hammering in his throat. He has to take a deep breath before he approaches the restaurant called Manny's.

It's quiet and softly lit inside, a few early bird couples occupying tables adorned with single candles and wine bottles. He doesn't see Steven, and for now he's glad for it—needs a little time to compose himself.

A young woman approaches him, and he asks for a table for one. She sits him in the corner by the window and hands him a menu which he looks at but doesn't see, so hyper-aware of everything around him, all noises and movements, waiting for the sound of familiar steps, voice, the scent of him.

Five minutes pass as he stares at the menu and glances around every few moments and still he doesn't see Steven. With a sinking heart, he wonders if he's arrived on one of Steven's nights off. It would be just his luck.

He chooses to order. He hasn't eaten all day and the food here looks as good as any, and it tastes even better when it arrives. It's cooked to perfection, and he eats it slowly, savouring it, washing it down with mineral water because the last thing he needs is to be pulled over for drink driving.

When he finishes his meal, he sits back and thinks about his plan. He's not leaving this town, not yet, not when he knows Steven's here, somewhere. He'll have a coffee now, and he'll find a hotel, and he'll come back here in the morning.

He could ask one of the staff here about Steven—the young lady serving him, or perhaps the older man behind the counter who's spent half the evening writing on a clipboard and rubbing his temples. But he doesn't want to give Steven forewarning, give him opportunity to avoid him.

"Can I get you anything else?" the young lady asks him, and he opens his mouth to ask for a coffee but the words don't come out.

He freezes, blood running cold then hot, burning through him and making his lungs seize in his chest. The door leading to the kitchen has opened and a man has stepped out, busy tugging off his chef's whites, skin flushed from the heat of cooking.

That man is Steven, and Brendan can't breathe.

He ignores the server and stands up on shaking legs, chair scraping back behind him and banging into the wall. He doesn't know what to do next: speak, or stride forward, or stand here and look at him.

Steven's got his whites off now and he slings them over his shoulder, brushes a hand through the hair at the back of his head. "Right, Manny, I'm done for the day, so I'll—"

The sound of his voice has Brendan stepping out from behind the table and taking a half a dozen steps forward, towards him. He's not making much noise but there must be something about him because Steven's words die on his tongue and his shoulders stiffen and he turns, slowly, and looks at him.

Brendan stops in the middle of the restaurant, and Steven doesn't move, and for an endless moment they stare at each other. He can read nothing on Steven's face; a thousand emotions flickering in his eyes and Brendan can't pinpoint a single one of them.

Then suddenly Steven sucks in a shuddering breath and staggers back before turning and fleeing—there's a fire escape door ahead of him and he vanishes through it before Brendan has time to register what's happened.

"Steven!" he calls, helplessly, but it's futile. Steven's already gone, the reverberation of the metal door echoing through the restaurant, making other customers look up curiously.

Brendan swears under his breath. "Sir—" says his waitress, but he strides past her and throws some money on the table, no idea how much, hopes it's enough. Grabs his phone and keys from beside his water glass and hurries out the door and down the alley beside the building, heading towards the back and to where he hopes—pointless, he knows—he'll be able to find Steven.

Of course, Steven's long gone.

::: :::


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: To answer the question some of you have asked—yes, I'm still writing AFS. An update to that won't be too far away. And thank you for all the feedback on this one!**

::: :::

Ste doesn't even—he just can't. That was Brendan. _Brendan_.

He's just seen Brendan.

He has no idea what's going on in his head and body right now as he breaks speed limits to get across town to get home, to safety. There's a lump the size of a golf ball in his throat and his skin's burning and there's a chance, a good chance, he might throw up. He can barely breathe, and he might be crying, and his head's full of deafening white noise and he just—he just—

It's _Brendan_.

He doesn't remember getting out of the car and going inside but the next thing he knows he's standing over the kitchen sink and filling up a glass of water with a trembling hand, and he's spilling it everywhere, and he can barely see straight, and his heart is the weight of agony in his chest.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

A hand settles on his shoulder and he looks up at Jamie, tries to force words out through the lump.

"I think I have." It's barely more than a strained whisper and it's enough to put concern in Jamie's eyes.

"What happened?"

He can't say it, not out loud, not without crumbling into a heap. But he has to. He _has_ to. It's only Brendan. Only a man. It's not as if that man was once his beating heart. "Brendan."

Jamie's eyebrows shoot up. "Brendan? Brendan-in-prison Brendan?"

"He's out," Ste says, and the realisation hits him harder now, a wrecking ball to the gut. "I've just seen him."

"Here? I thought he lived up north or, like…Ireland. What's he doing here?"

Ste shoots him a look, because the answer's so obvious it's painful. There's only one reason for Brendan to be all the way down here, miles away from Hollyoaks and his family and everything in his life.

"Stupid question," Jamie concedes. "What're you gonna do?"

"I don't know." He bends over the kitchen counter, puts his elbows on the surface and his face in his hands. "My head's telling me to stay the fuck away from him," he mumbles, confusion and panic and elation at war in his gut and chest, stealing his breath and making his mind swim.

Jamie pauses a moment before speaking again. "And your heart?"

Ste can't answer that. Doesn't know how.

Jamie sighs and rubs his back, makes a tutting noise. "You're going to your meeting tonight, aren't you?"

"Tomorrow."

"Good. Focus on what's important. Him being here doesn't have to mean anything."

"It does though," Ste says, standing up straight. He draws in a deep breath, tries to clear his head and the constriction in his chest. He can't think straight, and there's a lump in his throat trying to force out his emotions. "It does."

"All right," says Jamie, "but it doesn't have to change anything."

Everything within Ste wants to believe that, such a powerful desire for it to mean nothing, that he can just continue with his life and nothing will change, none of his hard work to get to this point will be affected. But this is Brendan. _Brendan._ And there's only one person who will understand what he's going through right now.

It's late, far too late, and Amy's all made up for bed when she answers the door—has to, because it's late enough that she's put the deadbolt on, and his key wouldn't work past his shaking hand anyway.

"What's wrong?" she asks the minute her surprise clears and she gets a good look at him. "Have you been crying?"

"No, don't be stupid."

But he might have been, a little, on the way over—all those emotions, some of them spilling over, regardless of his attempts to hold it all in.

They're still stood in the doorway, and Amy's got her nightdress on and hair scraped back, and the entire house is black and silent behind her, and all of this is so surreal, so much of a nightmare. He thought he was over this, crashing her house at stupid o'clock because he was having a meltdown over something or other. They'd made it through those days, and he's gone weeks, months, without any kind of episode.

But here he is now, like old times, calling on her at midnight because something's edged itself in and fucked him up.

And this time, that _something_ is the reason it all started in the first place. He's gone full circle, and he could laugh, if he wasn't so stricken.

"Ste—"

"Brendan's here," Ste says. Now isn't the time for small talk and chatter. He's here because he needs her, because he needs her to _understand_. "He's out, and he's here. Today. I've seen him."

Her eyes widen, and she does nothing for a few seconds; then she takes him by the arm and pulls him into the house, into the kitchen, turns the light on low.

"Did you…talk to him?"

"No, I just ran." He swallows thickly, can't believe he did that. He doesn't run from anything, not when it comes to Brendan; he's always stood his ground. But not this time. His fight-or-flight instinct kicked in and the sight of Brendan filled him with so much instant panic that he had no choice but to turn and flee. "He came to Manny's and I…I didn't know what to do. I couldn't—I wasn't ready for it."

Her expression softens into sympathy, her voice lowered and soothing when she next speaks. "Ste, you knew this was going to happen one day."

"I didn't think he'd come all the way down here to see me," he says helplessly. It was something he was banking on. Had no idea when Brendan would be released, but when he did, at least they would be nowhere near each other. But Brendan's found him, and Ste knows what it means—Brendan's been actively looking for him, on a mission, because only one person knows where to find Ste now and she's not someone who would walk up to Brendan and just tell him. Brendan must have investigated, followed leads. Brendan's made a real effort to get to him.

Deep down, Ste always knew he would, and Amy voices it.

"I know you don't believe that. This is Brendan we're talking about. And _you_. There's nothing he wouldn't—"

"Don't," he says, soft and almost pleading. "Just…don't."

He can't hear that now, all the things Brendan would do for him. Once upon a time, maybe, but none of it's true now. The painful reality of it is Ste was never as important to Brendan as Brendan was to him. He proved that.

"Okay, okay," Amy says. "Listen. Just go home, relax, try to clear your head."

He shoves his hands into his hair suddenly, a swell of anxiety rising in him, overwhelming all his efforts to stay calm. "I can't deal with this, Amy. I thought I'd be ready but I just…"

She pulls him into her arms, gathers him close, and he clings to her like she's his lifeline in this turmoil.

"It's going to be okay," she whispers.

He squeezes his eyes shut to stop the tears.

::: :::

Every morning since he got out of prison Brendan's woken up in confusion—unfamiliar walls and noises and feelings. But not today. Today he wakes up and instantly knows where he is, and why he's here, and what he's going to do. He springs out of bed with a buoyancy he's not felt in a long time.

The hotel's decent enough, and he gets a fairly good breakfast, and he picks up a newspaper from reception to read and pass the time while he waits for afternoon to approach, when he can go out and try again.

Close to lunchtime he rifles through his belongings from prison to find his little book full of numbers, reclines back on the bed and calls Mitzeee.

"It's me," he says when she answers, and she's so pleased to hear from him that it makes him smile.

"Brendan! How's freedom treating you?"

He tells her everything. Where he's been, what he's doing now, how it went yesterday, seeing Steven again.

"Tell me where you're staying. I'll pop down next week for a few days. Phoenix can stay with his Auntie Maxine."

He likes the idea of that, so he tells her. It's nice, having her close again; he only lost her to the states for just over a year. There came a point, she told him during one of her visits, where she missed home too much that she could no longer ignore it. So she paid a tearful goodbye to Carl, and she packed up her belongings, and she called her sister in London, and she never looked back.

She became something to focus on in prison, her fortnightly visits, a reason to make it through one week, and then the next.

She knew all along what he planned to do once he got out, and she's not surprised to discover he's already here, attempting to make it happen.

"So you're gonna try again?" she asks him.

"'Course I'm gonna try again." Nothing in this world would make him give up, not yet, not until he's told by Steven himself that he's not wanted.

He goes back to the restaurant early in the afternoon. He's still nervous as he walks through the door, but the initial panic has gone. Steven knows he's here now, and the world hasn't ended around him. He's taking it as a sign.

There's a man behind the counter, the same man he saw last night, and he's busy now staring at a piece of paper, scowling and rubbing his temples. He grunts when Brendan approaches him.

Brendan cuts right to it. "Is Steven here? Uh, Ste. Your chef."

"Sorry, pal," the man says mildly without looking up at him. "He called in sick this morning. Left me _right_ in the lurch, I'll tell you."

"You got a number for him?" Brendan asks, tapping his fingers on the counter, trying to rein in his agitation. "An address?"

The man glances up at him then, peers at him with scrutiny in his eyes.

"Can't give out employee information," he says, his tone guarded, "sorry."

Steven's not sick. Steven's avoiding him. He expected something like this at first, only it leaves him in a bit of a black hole now—this restaurant is his only means of contacting him. And if he's not here, and if no one's willing to give Brendan information, then he's stuck doing nothing but trying again, coming back tomorrow, and the next day, for however long it takes.

For now, he returns to the hotel, feeling completely helpless. It's a kind of desolation that has him wasting half the day lying on the bed, staring blankly at daytime television. He has nothing to do, no one to call or visit, no work, no activities—absolutely nothing but this pursuit of Steven, and the maddening brick wall he's smacked into.

Someone knocks on his door just past six and startles him awake. He's been dozing, vaguely, drifting in and out as he half-watched an old romcom, trying not to think about the sorry state of his life right now.

The person on the other side of the door is enough to chase from his system all thoughts of anything except absolute shock.

"Amy."

She smiles, tight and guarded. "Hello, Brendan."

"What're you—how—" He's blinking at her stupidly, he knows he is, but he can't help it. Amy goddamn Barnes.

"I work here," she says. And of course. Of all the hotels. "Events. Saw your name in the system."

He raises an eyebrow. He might be in shock, but he's not stupid. "You already knew I was in town though."

"Ste mentioned it, yeah," she admits, tilting her head to the side.

He shifts his feet, one hand white-knuckled around the edge of the door. "How is he?" he asks, and for some reason, he can't look her in the eye as he does so. Looks down instead, at the grey carpet and the neat little shoes she's wearing.

"Generally, or after seeing you yesterday?"

"Both," he says, swallowing.

"Generally he's fine. Better than fine, actually. After seeing you…" She pauses, and he looks up at her, breath held. "He's shaken."

He's assuming it's an understatement, one that makes his stomach lurch unpleasantly.

"I'm not here to cause trouble," he says, because he feels it's an important thing to point out, especially to this girl.

"And I'm not here to tell you to stay away."

Surprise hits him, surprise and caution. This isn't like Amy. He's used to her squaring up to him, showing more courage and determination than men three times her size, telling him what she thinks of him, and where she thinks he can stick his interest in Steven. Amy Barnes is _exactly_ the person to tell him to stay away.

"But I want you to think very carefully before you make your next move," she adds, a deliberate note of warning in her tone.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he can't go through it again. Any of it."

It's a statement of finality, and she's brooking no argument. He respects her for it, and there's a certain relief in him that not _everything_ has changed—there's still a hint of the old Amy there, staunchly defending her best friend, the father of her children.

"I wouldn't hurt him," he says, hopes he sounds as sincere as he feels. "I know you find it hard to believe and I don't blame you—"

"I'm not on about the violence, Brendan." She waves a dismissive hand. "Ste told me how that was all history long before you went to prison."

Then he lied to her. Because it _was_ history, and Steven developed faith in him—faith Brendan destroyed that night, getting Steven's blood on his knuckles in a moment of white-washed fury that, even now, he struggles to think about without feeling the suffocating weight of guilt. He's worked hard these past five years to battle his demons and the hell of his memories, but there are some things he will never completely forgive himself for.

"What then?" he says now, because if she's not here to warn him about the violence, then there's more he needs to hear.

"He can't go through losing you again," she says after a moment of hesitation. There's a sadness in her eyes that makes him want to close the door on her so he doesn't have to face it. "It nearly killed him. He was fine for ages, or he was pretending to be fine, but then it all just sort of crashed around him and…"

"I'm sorry." It's the most underwhelming, meaningless response he can give, but it's all he's got. He doesn't know how to take what she's just said, what he's put Steven through, the knowledge that Steven was out here in the world, suffering, alone—

"Believe it or not," Amy says, cutting through his anguished thoughts, "I don't really blame you for what happened. I know you were trying, and Ste was _so_…" She stops, and then she sighs, and when she looks at Brendan now, there's a softness to her expression. It almost looks like pity. "No one can blame you for killing your dad."

"You know," he says, although she obviously doesn't know everything. Only two people in this world know he didn't actually do it, but that doesn't mean he didn't deserve to atone—for much more than just the death of his father.

But clearly she knows the reason his father is dead, and that realisation makes his skin crawl.

"I know everything about everything. Ste had to let someone in. But you've paid the price, and you're a free man now. And I do think you deserve it, Brendan." She nods, like she really wants him to understand, to believe her. "Freedom. A new start."

He attempts a small smile. Because he does believe her, and he almost believes in himself now. "Thank you."

She returns the smile, before her eyes harden again. "But I'm not joking. He barely survived losing you. He can't—"

"I wouldn't go anywhere," he says. "Not again."

"You have to be sure. Before you go down that road, start trying to… You have to be _absolutely_ sure it's what you want. Forever."

"It is."

"Because if it's not, you don't even see him. Not even to say hello. You drive right out of this town and—"

"Amy," he says, firmer now, wanting her to listen to him, to really listen. "It _is_."

She comes to a stop mid-rant, looks up at him with surprise. Whether she didn't expect him to want this, or that he wouldn't _admit_ he wants this—either way, it's knocked the wind out of her sails, and whatever tension gathered around them during this visit dissipates enough for them to share a look of understanding.

She raises an eyebrow. "I take it you don't have plans tonight."

"Nope," he says. "Free agent."

"Good. Then you'll come to mine for dinner."

He opens his mouth to speak, doesn't really know what he's going to say, but she cuts him off.

"Don't get excited," she warns. "Ste won't be there. It's just dinner with me and my family."

"Dinner at your place." He's considering it, he can't lie. The sharp claws of loneliness have already started nipping at him here in this town, away from everyone and everything he knows.

"You're alone in town, right?" she says, like she can read his mind. "Do you want to eat alone? I get it now, Brendan," she adds, softer, looking him hard in the eye with a kind of warmth she's never directed at him before. "I didn't before but I've had a lot of time to think, to see things differently. Spent a lot of time listening to Ste."

"And?" he asks awkwardly, half desperate to the end the conversation, half needing to know exactly what she means.

"And I'd like you to come for dinner," she says simply. "See the kids. Don't think they'll remember you, but…"

It's the mention of the kids that does it for him.

"Yeah, I'd…yeah."

She smiles. There's no pity in her eyes now.

::: :::

Ste's been stood here for fifteen minutes now making this cup of tea. He's sure it's already gone cold, but he keeps stirring it anyway. The crowd behind him is muted in comparison to his deafening thoughts, and he could be anywhere right now for as much notice he's paying to his surroundings.

"Too sick for work, eh?"

He startles, heart jolting against his ribs. "Sorry," he says, looking across at Manny. He's been caught out by his boss, but here in this place, in this run-down community centre he's come to think of as a sanctuary, Manny isn't his boss—he's his leader, and his guide. "I just…"

He doesn't have words to finish the sentence, so he looks back down at his miserable cup of tea in its white plastic cup, at the half-stale biscuits laid out on an old paper plate for the attendees. No expense spared at these meetings.

Manny drops a tea bag into a plastic cup—cheap tea bags, the cheapest the local supermarket offers, yet everyone makes themselves a cuppa when they get here each week, like it's an unwritten law. One of these days, Ste's going to bring in a pack of PG Tips, watch them all lose their minds at the novelty of it.

"Anything to do with that fella who came by this afternoon?" Manny asks carefully.

Ste looks up sharply. "He came back?"

It's not as if he expected anything less, really, so he doesn't know why he's surprised.

"Yep. Seemed pretty keen to see you."

"What did you tell him?" Ste asks, licking his lips nervously.

"That you weren't working today." Manny adds on-the-turn milk to his cup, raises an eyebrow at Ste. "Who is he?"

It's a loaded question. He could spend the next three hours explaining Brendan, and still not scratch the surface.

Or he could say nothing.

"Just…someone."

Manny pauses. Something in Ste's tone makes him narrow his eyes and ask, "Anything to do with the reason you ended up here?"

Ste heaves a heavy sigh. He could lie, but he sees no benefit in it. "Pretty much everything to do with it."

"Ouch," says Manny, wincing. "You gonna be okay?"

"I'll have to be." Ste makes a show of standing up straight, rolling the anxiety off his shoulders. Manny's got enough to worry about without adding this to the mix. "Didn't come this far just to chuck it away now, did I?"

"That's the spirit," Manny says, reaching across the table to pat Ste on the shoulder. "Come on, time to get started."

They leave the tea station and head to the centre of the room, where a ring of chairs has been laid out. As Manny takes his seat at the front—the leader of these meetings, and the reason Ste makes an extra effort to attend each week—the other attendees end their conversations and find a seat, settling down.

"Right, everyone, we ready?" Manny asks, looking around at them all with his kind eyes. "Who wants to kick us off?"

Ste raises a hand and Manny nods, smiling. He doesn't usually like to go first, but he's using this as a distraction. As long as he's talking to these people, he's not thinking about the dramatic turn his life's taken this week.

He puts his tea down on the floor and gets to his feet.

"Hiya. My name's Ste, and I'm an alcoholic…"

::: :::

Dinner at Amy's is pleasant enough, if a little awkward. Brendan meets her husband first—a quiet, affable man by the name of Tommy—who greets him with a handshake and mind-numbingly boring small talk. Amy doesn't explain Brendan to him, only that he's an old friend of hers and Ste's who's in town for a few days, and so Brendan gets questions from Tommy about his life, and his job, and all the things he can only answer with vague details. The guy doesn't know he's just got out of prison; Brendan's not looking to educate him.

The kids don't come down until dinner's on the table, and Brendan can do nothing but stare at them for a few minutes before they notice, and give him weird looks, and he glances away quickly, tucks into the chicken Amy's prepared.

Lucas he never quite connected with—he liked the kid, and they got on, but the boy was too young back then for them to really bond, and there was never enough time. Leah, however…there was always something. Not just an instant connection, but a strong one, and time spent together that had him developing a fatherly sort of love for her in their limited weeks as a family. He feels a pull in his chest as he looks at her again now, a heaviness in his heart. She notices, and she stares back at him with something like curiosity in her eyes.

She's growing up quickly. He doesn't like how much of her life he's missed.

Tommy and Amy clean up after dinner, refuse Brendan's help when he's offered, and he's left alone in the living room for a few minutes with a glass of wine and the memory of Steven all around him. She has so many pictures—herself, her family, Steven, the kids—there's even one of him and Steven, tucked away at the back of a shelf, the two of them smiling for the camera with the kids sat on each of Brendan's knees. It looks like a picture Steven took himself, his arm stretched out to hold the camera. Brendan doesn't remember, as much as he desperately searches his brain for the memory.

He moves to the mantelpiece, one particular picture catching his eye. It's Steven with another man, and it looks recent. It's the first proper chance he's had to look at a Steven with five extra years on him—he doesn't seem much different. Same hairstyle, same smooth, golden skin, same build. Maybe the beginnings of a line or two around his eyes, although that could be down to the massive grin he's sporting for the camera.

He looks happy. And he's still beautiful.

"That one was taken a couple of months ago," Amy says, coming up next to him. He hadn't heard her entering the room.

Brendan smiles. He has the strangest urge to run the tip of his finger over the image of Steven's face. "He hasn't changed much."

"Forever young and beautiful," Amy says with a little laugh. "I kind of hate him."

He looks at the man standing next to Steven in the picture—he's young, maybe around Steven's age, dark hair and eyes and enviable cheekbones. "Is that…?"

"Just a friend," Amy says knowingly. She reaches out to readjust the picture, straighten in. Brendan gets the feeling she's just looking for something to do with her hands. "Housemate. He hasn't—there hasn't really been anyone. The odd fling here and there…"

"I wanted him to move on." That was the plan. It would kill him now, to know that he has.

She looks up at him. "Then what are you doing here?"

It takes him a few moments to answer. "I thought I was getting life," he says, then gives her a wry smile. "I didn't get life."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Steven, he's…" He chokes on his answer. Not outwardly, but something within him stops the words in his throat, his desire to say what he feels. His history of bottling everything up working against him.

"Go on," she urges, and when he doesn't answer, she takes him by the arm and turns him to face her. He's so startled by the contact that he doesn't think to resist. "Brendan, please," she pushes, and there's something close to a plea in her eyes. "I know you don't do the whole expressing feelings thing but give me something real. Just so I know I'm doing the right thing here."

He brings a hand up to rub his brow, desperate for the right words, a way to explain how he feels, the ability to expose his emotions in a way he never has before, not with someone like Amy.

But she needs to know. She's going out on a limb here for him, giving him the time of day, letting him into her world, into _Steven's_ world. And after everything he's put her through in the past, everything he's done to Steven that she's had to watch, she deserves to know now, what he wants, why he's here. No façade. No pretences.

He owes her that much, at least.

He takes a breath and looks her in the eye. "I can't live my life without him," he says, the words cracking in his throat. "I don't know how to even try. I…" He pauses, and he shifts his feet, and he can't help the discomfort he feels at saying these things out loud. Things he's thought about every day for the past half a decade.

She nods, urging him to continue, looking transfixed by his confession.

"I love him," he says, the words coming out on an anxious breath. "There'll never be anyone else for me, regardless of what happens here now."

She searches his eyes, her brows slightly drawn together. "You really believe you'll go your whole life never getting involved with another man?"

He gives a quiet, awkward laugh. "If Steven turns me away, there'll always be other men," he admits. "I don't do celibacy." He looks down, smoothes a thumb over the edge of his moustache. "But I'm not capable of feeling anything for any other man. It's like…I don't know." He shrugs, and something about this makes him smile, soft and annoyingly sentimental. "Like I was built for him or something."

There's a pause, and then: "That's the sweetest thing I've ever heard you say. If a bit twisted."

It knocks another laugh out of him, easing some of the discomfort he feels at opening up so much. "Shut up."

She smiles, just for a moment, before sobering. "You're prepared to fight for him? You know how stubborn he is."

He nods without hesitation. This is something he's turned over and over in his mind, always reaching the same conclusion. "He fought for me, once upon a time. Put everything on the line for me. Now it's my turn."

"Give me your number," she says swiftly, a hint of determination in her tone now. Something he said has stirred within her and he rushes to oblige. "I'll pass it on." She puts her hand back on his arm as he's reaching in his pocket for his phone, and when he looks at her again, she's giving him that same warning look he's come to expect from her.

"But listen to me, don't go back to the restaurant," she orders, stern and with no room for argument. "Don't back him into a corner. Let him decide to contact you." She releases his arm and reaches for a pen on a nearby shelf. "I'll talk to him."

He never thought the day would come when he would be grateful to have Amy Barnes in his life.

::: :::


	3. Chapter 3

There's something different about Amy this morning, and Ste's suspicious.

He's come over to take the kids to school, like he does three mornings a week, and while usually she's busy dashing around the house finding matching socks and making packed lunches and shouting at the kids to get a move on, this morning she's stood in the kitchen with him, quietly leaning against the cooker, drinking a cup of tea.

She's not quite managed to meet his eye yet.

"Amy," he says, because he's been staring at her for the last five minutes and all she's done is gaze sternly into her mug.

The sound of his voice makes her jump. "What?" she says, looking up at him finally.

He raises his eyebrows, says nothing. They've known each other so long that they can have entire conversations via facial expressions, and his now says _I know something's going on_ and _I'm not stupid_, and it only takes her two seconds of looking at him for her shoulders to sag in defeat.

She puts her cup on the counter with a sigh, pulls a slip of paper out from behind the toaster.

"Here," she says, handing it to him. The tops of her cheeks are tinged pink.

"What's this?" he asks, taking it from her. The banging and bumps from upstairs, indicating the kids moving around and getting ready for school like he shouted up at them to when he arrived, have gone worryingly silent, and half his mind is on that—distracted enough that he's totally blindsided by her response.

"Brendan's number," she says after a moment of hesitation. "I had him 'round for tea last night."

The bottom drops out of his stomach.

His ears start ringing, and something quick and hot rushes through his blood. The force at which he puts his cup down makes the tea slosh over the sides.

"You—Amy!"

"He's on his own in town," she explains, hastily. "I felt sorry for him!"

Amy, feeling sorry for Brendan Brady. In what universe did he wake up this morning?

"Since when have you been his best mate, eh?"

Her eyes narrow. "Don't exaggerate," she says. "It was just dinner."

Brendan's been here, in this kitchen probably. Maybe he touched the counter Ste's leaning against; maybe he drank from the cup Ste's lips and tongue have pressed against this morning. Maybe he—

"Were the kids here?" The words come out thick, strained, and she has the grace to look a little apologetic.

"Yes. They didn't remember him."

It's something, at least. It's enough that his world's been thrown upside down; the kids don't need to relive anything in the past.

This isn't how he wanted any of it to happen. None of it is in his control now. Amy and Brendan, two polarising ends of his world once upon a time, now getting together behind his back, having _dinner_.

But try as he might, he can't be angry with her, not like he wants to. Angry at the situation, yes—but there's another emotion overriding it, an emotion that has him speaking quietly, and through a constriction in his throat.

"How is he?"

Her face softens. "Prison did something to him," she says. "He's more… I don't know. Like he's found inner peace or something. He's got his head together."

"Right," Ste says with a helpless, bitter laugh.

"Seriously, Ste." She nods, takes a step closer to him. "He's different. Everything that happened to him… I think he's dealt with it. As much as he can, anyway."

He must be dreaming, because there's no way he's hearing this. He can't be standing here, listening to Amy talk positively about Brendan.

And he can't afford to believe her.

"I can't believe _you're_ trying to convince me on the merits of Brendan Brady."

Something about his comment makes her uncomfortable—she shifts her feet, a hint of agitation in her movements as she brushes hair off her face. "Yes, well, you've only got yourself to blame. Making me see him in a new light and everything."

"I didn't tell you all that stuff so you could use it against me!"

"What exactly am I doing that's against you?" she asks, her tone measured, and he doesn't have an answer for her.

Once upon a time, this would have been all his Christmases and birthdays at once—having Amy on his side about Brendan, finally believing in him, in _them_. But now it just leaves him cold, helpless; the security blanket he's crafted for himself in the past few years is ripping at the seams, inch by inch, and he doesn't have the thread to stitch it back together.

"I can't see him." His voice is hollow.

"Why?"

"You know why."

"Not even for closure?" she asks, quiet and tentative. "I really think you need the closure, Ste."

"I've had closure. I've spent the last five years getting closure."

"I know it's been hard—all right, fine," she amends, when he shoots her a look of disbelief, "I know that's an understatement. And you know I'd support you in anything you decide. But I want you to know I'm doing this for you, not him." She steps closer, takes his hand. "I have watched you, for years, day after day, trying to hold yourself together without him. Even now you're barely holding on."

It makes him wince, the truth of it, and her eyes shine with compassion.

"You've never gotten over him, Ste. If you want my advice," she says, squeezing his hand, "the only way you can move on once and for all is to see him and walk away from him. End it on your own terms."

He swallows thickly, his stomach churning at the idea of it. Look Brendan in the face, and walk away. Some days, even now, he barely has the strength to keep Brendan out of his head.

"I thought you were part of his fan club now."

"I'm not telling you to be callous," she says. "But if you really don't want anything to do with him—and you're sure you don't?"

He huffs out a breath, brings his free hand up to rub his forehead. All he can think about are all these years without him, and all he can see is his face, and all he can feel, at the heart of it, is the numbness he worked so hard to create when he picked himself up out of the gutter, and the memories of his past, of what he once felt, chipping away at it.

"Ste."

"My head's all over the place now," he admits.

She tugs on his hand, makes him look at her. "Figure it out. Because believe me, he's not going anywhere until you make him."

::: :::

Brendan doesn't really know what to do with his time. One day blends into the next while he watches mindless television, and walks around town, and thinks about what the hell he's going to do with his life now.

He didn't have a plan, getting out of prison. The obvious step is to find a nightclub somewhere and run it; it's what he does, the only thing he knows how to do, and he still has enough contacts that getting in somewhere wouldn't be a problem. But he can't see that far ahead. He can't see further than Steven right now, just looking at him in the flesh, hearing his voice, anything. And it's annoying him, because he feels as though the next chapter of his life is on hold just waiting for some kind of response, any kind of response, from this one man who holds the key to his future.

Waiting is hard. He's never liked waiting, far too impatient, much preferred getting up and getting things done himself. It's fitting, really, that the only thing he's ever waited for is Steven—first his relationship with that idiot Noah, and then his marriage to Douglas. Although even then, he can't say he was patient. He didn't always stand on the sidelines. Liked to interfere, push things along, when he felt he could.

Waiting is getting to him so much that he even finds himself vaguely wondering what happened to Douglas, why the deli closed down, if he's gone back to the states. If he and Steven ever rekindled anything.

He loses patience when those thoughts start to settle in and he asks various hotel staff about Amy, if she's around, but she's always off duty or in a meeting and he never even got her number, doesn't feel comfortable enough to visit her house.

He starts getting it in his head that she's avoiding him, that maybe her chat with Steven went badly and she doesn't know how to tell him. And she doesn't help alleviate that concern any when she eventually stops by, sits at the little table in his hotel room and drinks a pot of tea with him.

"He will be in touch, Brendan, I promise," she says, after telling him she had passed on his number the very next morning. "I know him better than anyone, and I know exactly what he's doing."

He huffs a bitter laugh. "Making me sweat."

"No," she says, her tone reassuringly confident. "Making sure he can risk it." She smiles then, gives a little nod. "He will."

He needs a distraction, something to take his mind off it before he does something stupid like go back to the restaurant and scare Steven off for good. He joins a gym, wastes hours in there; he half-heartedly looks at a few flats, unable to truly consider it when he doesn't even know where he'll be next week. He checks out a few local therapists, like Glenda told him to do once he got out of prison.

None of it works, and in the end there comes a point where he can't wait any longer. Steven's clearly not interested, and Brendan still has his pride. It's with a constricted chest and his mind a numb, emotionless void that Brendan begins packing his things away, tidying up the hotel room, ready to check out.

And then he gets the text.

_Costa on the high street, 4pm_

There's no name attached to the text, but there doesn't need to be.

Brendan slumps down on the edge of the bed, heart in his throat, and stares at the phone.

::: :::

Jamie comes blazing through the door just as Ste's midway through some kind of mental breakdown on the couch.

"Right, got your message. What's the emergency?" He stops in front of Ste, takes him in. Mild horror flashes across his face. "You haven't…"

"No, I've not relapsed," Ste says with a sigh, then bites his bottom lip. "I think I've just done something stupid."

_Stupid_ is an understatement. He's still not come down from the adrenaline high of terror he'd had when he pressed the send button on that text. It took him an hour to write the handful of words, stopped and started so many times he was giving himself a headache. And then, as soon as he hit send, his whole body had flooded with panic.

Panic he can still feel coursing through his veins.

Jamie scrutinises him. "You've still got both your eyebrows," he says slowly, looking him over, "I don't see any dodgy tattoos or piercings—"

"I've arranged to meet up with Brendan." He says it all in one breath, as if doing so will make it sound less like a trainwreck waiting to happen.

Jamie's eyes widen. "Brendan-in-prison Brendan?"

"You can stop calling him that now," Ste huffs. "He's not in prison anymore."

"That's true, sorry," Jamie says with a nod. He sits beside him on the couch, turns to face him. "Can I just check something, though? This is the Brendan who went to prison for _murder_, yes?"

"Manslaughter. And it wasn't like that."

"Oh right, okay, my mistake," Jamie says dryly. "Let me rephrase. This is the Brendan who went to prison for _killing someone_, yes?"

"You're not funny," Ste says, scowling.

"Literally nothing about this situation is funny. Are you wearing a wire?" Jamie starts pawing at him, tugging on his t-shirt. "Is that what this meeting's about?"

"Get off," Ste says, pushing his hands away.

"Are you working for the police? Are you a _spy_?"

"Why would I need to be wearing a wire? He already confessed and went to prison."

"Confessed to _murder_."

"Right, are you gonna keep banging on about that? Because—"

"Listen to yourself!" Jamie throws his hands up, and Ste realises he's serious—hiding it under his usual guise of playing the joker, but serious nonetheless. "'Banging on about that.' Like it's nothing. You've arranged to meet up with a convicted killer."

Ste sees it from Jamie's point of view. He's not an idiot. From an outsider, "fucked up" doesn't even begin to describe his situation, or his history with Brendan. And Jamie cares about him; Jamie's sitting here listening to his best friend say he's going to meet up with a man who has death on his hands.

He sighs.

"He's not—look, with Brendan it's complicated. He's not…he's not a psycho or anything. What he did, he had to do. He was protecting the people he loves." He tries to give Jamie a smile of reassurance. "Do you really think he'd be out after just five years if he was some crazy murderer, eh?"

Jamie's brows draw together. "That's…a good point, actually."

"Just trust me, okay?" He puts his hand on Jamie's knee, gives it a squeeze. "He's not dangerous. He's not…he's not a bad person." He pauses, swallows, looks away from Jamie's contemplative gaze. "He's actually a pretty good person."

Jamie takes a few moments to respond, and when he does, his voice is soft. "What's the problem then?"

"I…" The words won't come. He's fiddling with his phone, turning it over and over in his hand, digging the edge of his thumbnail into the grooves around the screen. Anything to avoid speaking his mind.

"Come on," Jamie says, nudging him with his elbow.

Ste breathes out a long breath, scowls up at Jamie through his eyelashes. "Don't laugh."

"I won't."

"I mean it," Ste says. "You can't laugh." His heart is already racing, anxious about admitting out loud some of what's bothered him for so long, even just a tiny bit of it.

Jamie gives him a gentle smile. "Pinky swear," he says, holding out his little finger. Ste huffs a laugh, memories of Amy and Sinead and Leah flooding his brain for an instant, relieving some of the tension building there.

He pinky-swears with Jamie, then folds his hand back over his phone in his lap, swallows dryly.

Jamie's a patient man, and he doesn't interrupt until moments have passed and Ste's gathered enough courage.

"He was the love of my life."

Instantly he wants to snatch the words back, because if they live in his head rather than out in the open, then they're not real. He can keep them locked up and smothered beneath his security blanket where they can't hurt him, where he doesn't have to _feel_ or experience everything they do to him. The numbing loneliness. The agonising sense of loss and grief.

His heart, torn out and shut away in a cell, miles away, in a place he was forbidden to visit.

But he's started now, and it's like a loose tap, and it's going to take more strength than he possesses to twist it shut again.

He sighs, and there's a crack in his voice when he speaks once more.

"He was…my whole world," he says, and even saying the words is enough to get a hint of that feeling—that warmth blooming in his chest, what it was like to have Brendan in his life, to _have_ Brendan, before he left, and everything went cold and dark and so isolated. He swallows through a grimace. "And then he shut me out," he adds, voice holding a chill now. "Completely. Just slammed the door in my face."

"The cell door?"

Ste shoots him a stern look, even if he appreciates the touch of humour to help bring him out of his own head.

The corners of Jamie's lips twitch, but his eyes are full of compassion. "Sorry," he says, and Ste continues.

"I've worked really, really hard to get over everything that happened," he explains, nodding, trying to convince. "To learn how to live without him. What if I see him again and I just…" He looks up at Jamie, resisting the urge to grab a part of him somehow, grab him and hold on. "I'm just scared," he says, the words croaky and weak. "I'm scared."

"What if you don't see him again?"

"I have to." He's spent days coming to this decision.

Really, he knew from the moment Amy handed him the number that there was never going to be any other option.

"I have to look at him and know he's all right."

Jamie nods, chewing his bottom lip in contemplation. "How long have you got before you meet him?"

"Couple of hours," Ste says, glancing at the clock on his phone. It was deliberate, arranging to meet Brendan so late, at four o'clock. He has his shift at work starting half an hour later. The perfect excuse to leave.

He just wants to see Brendan. Look him in the face. Know he's okay, that he survived—mentally, emotionally. That prison didn't chip away everything about him that Ste loved so fiercely.

Jamie gives his leg a squeeze. "I'll put the kettle on."

::: :::

The coffee shop's busy. Brendan's managed to find a small, two-seater table tucked in a corner at the back, where he's been sitting for the past twenty minutes nursing a rapidly cooling coffee and staring at the door.

Every time the door opens, his heart jolts painfully in his chest.

He's nervous, more nervous than he's ever been about anything. He's full to the brim with anticipation and fear and excitement. This might not go the way he wants it to; but if nothing else, he'll get to see Steven in person, properly, after so long.

It's not like him to care this much, to be so obviously affected by another person. But Steven has always been his weakness. Everyone knew it, long before he was ever close to admitting it even to himself. Steven is the one person so capable of breaking through all his bullshit and getting to the core of him, where pretences are irrelevant.

With Steven now there can't be any more pretences. He's wasted too many years; wasted too many chances.

This is his last shot, an all-or-nothing mission to put everything to rights. If it doesn't work, if he has to leave this town alone, then at least he can do it knowing he tried, gave it everything he had.

When the door next opens, it's Steven who comes through it, and all thoughts flee Brendan's mind. All he can do is stare.

If Steven's nervous at all, he's not showing it. He walks in with his head held high, heads straight for the counter without looking around, even manages to smile at a woman as he steps aside for her to push a buggy past him. He then joins the queue at the counter, gazing up at the menu board as if there's nothing at all going on in his mind other than which flavour of coffee to go for.

It makes Brendan's stomach sink. Steven doesn't care. None of this is affecting him.

But then he sees it. The agitated twitch of his fingers before he curls his hand into a fist. The tightness at the corner of his mouth. The way he's staring up at the menu board but not seeing it—his eyes unfocused, so lacking in awareness that he doesn't notice when the queue before him clears and it's his turn.

Steven's nervous. He's just got better at hiding it.

He's still, after all this time, the most beautiful thing Brendan's ever seen.

He finishes and pays for his coffee, and there's a moment where it looks as though he's steeling himself before he turns, and sweeps his gaze across the room.

Their eyes lock, and for an instant Brendan thinks he's not going to do it. He's going to put that coffee back on the counter and turn away, leave without a word.

But he doesn't. He takes one step forward, and then another, and suddenly he's there in front of the table and Brendan gets to his feet and he has no idea what to do now, can't think because all he manages to do, even now with the minute or two he's had to prepare, is stare at him.

All this time, his entire stay in prison gearing up to this moment, to being in the same room as him, looking him in the eye, nothing between them, no barriers or locks or years of forced separation.

He doesn't know whether to shake Steven's hand or hug him or kiss him or—

He wants to do all three, wants to do it all, and it feels like he's been stood here staring at him like an idiot for hours when he knows in reality it's been a few moments at most, and Steven looks just as lost for words, stood there grasping a coffee like it's his lifeline, looking directly into Brendan's face with eyes slightly widened.

Steven's taking him in. Gaze flitting from his eyes to his mouth to his hair and then down, the build of him now, cataloguing every change. Brendan lets him, says and does nothing to prevent it, doesn't give a fuck what people might think—the other customers here, who might look over and see two men staring at each other, wordless and intense. He doesn't care. Because they don't know. They don't know what they've both been through to get to this moment.

He smiles then, an attempt at a greeting, and it's a smile that snaps Steven out of it. He looks away sharply, pulls a chair out.

Brendan sits. Any opportunity he had to touch and hold and breathe this man in has passed by. He watches Steven take a seat, notes the slight shake of his hand around his coffee mug, the nervous twitch in his fingers as he pops open the top buttons of his jacket.

Brendan can't stop watching everything he does.

"Steven—"

"How long have you been out?"

It doesn't sound accusatory, but there's an edge to it, although Brendan's more preoccupied by that accent. Mildly irritating at times in the past; ended up being one of the things he never wanted to forget when locked away without it.

He got friendly with a guy inside, an arsonist from Manchester. Used to spend hours winding him up just to listen to him fly off the handle, rant at him with that brash, overly affected accent. Brendan would close his eyes and drink it in.

He clears his throat, but his voice is still gruff when he speaks, like he hasn't used it for a long time. "Few weeks."

Steven nods. There are lines of tension in his forehead. "Right."

"I had to go to Ireland first, you know," Brendan explains, almost apologetically. "See the kids, Cheryl…"

"How is Cheryl?" Steven asks, perking up at that. He's looking at Brendan with genuine curiosity.

He often wondered how that would go in his absence, the Cheryl and Steven relationship. Steven knew the reason Brendan went to prison, who he was protecting on his way down.

"She's…yeah." He doesn't want to talk about Cheryl right now. He leans forward in his seat, lowers his voice, wants Steven to really listen to him. "I went all 'round Hollyoaks looking for you."

Steven smiles, cold and tight. "Moved out of there a couple of years ago."

"I'm glad you did," Brendan says. "I wasn't too thrilled about living there again, if I'm honest."

The confession makes Steven raise his eyebrows. "What's me living there got to do with where you decide to live?"

Brendan knows Steven's not that stupid.

"Steven—"

"You're looking well, anyway," Steven says, the tops of his cheeks colouring slightly. "You know," he adds, shrugging one shoulder, "considering."

He made use of the gym while he was inside, but still this isn't what he wants to talk about. Small talk. Idle chatter. It's not going to get them anywhere.

"Saw the kids this week," he says, watching Steven's face for a reaction. "Leah and Lucas."

"Yeah, Amy said." His tone is bland, careless. Brendan's not fooled.

"Can't believe how much Lucas looks like you."

"Growing up quick," Steven says with a halfhearted nod. He lifts his cup to his lips, blows steam from it.

Brendan is momentarily distracted by it, until he remembers why he's here, and what he's trying to achieve.

"Steven, listen—"

Steven doesn't take a sip. He puts the cup down again and breaks eye contact. "Don't," he says, quiet but firm.

"I've got things I need to—"

"I don't wanna hear any of it." He's cutting him off without a chance and Brendan can't blame him, not really, but it doesn't make it any easier to take. "I just came to say hi and let you know I'm fine, right," Steven continues, more confident now, putting on a front Brendan sees right through. "So you don't need to hang around."

Brendan tilts his head, considering him. "You want me to leave?"

Steven says nothing at first, just looks at him. Brendan can see the roll of his throat as he swallows, the hesitation as he opens his mouth to speak, nothing coming out.

Then Steven says, "I have to go," and suddenly he's getting up, and Brendan's panicking.

"You've just got here," he says, getting to his feet as well, putting a hand out as if it might stop Steven from leaving.

"Got me shift at work, ain't I," Steven says, buttoning his jacket up again. "Life doesn't stop just 'cos you've rolled into town."

"Can we meet again though?" Brendan's scrabbling for something, anything, to extend this, or to assure him of another meet, that this isn't it, this isn't all he's getting of this man. "We really need to talk, Steven."

Steven shakes his head, and Brendan's heart sinks like a lead weight down into his gut.

"I don't have anything to say."

"I do," Brendan says helplessly, and he knows he sounds pathetic, desperate and needy, but he doesn't care. He'll get on his knees if he has to.

"Sorry," Steven says, looking at him. His eyes are shining. "I've got to go."

And all Brendan can do is watch him leave.

Only Steven doesn't get far. Two or three steps before he stops, and he turns abruptly, and before Brendan has time to think or react or anything at all, Steven's in his arms, clinging tight, and Brendan can't breathe, can't get in any air against the rush of overpowering emotion swelling his chest at the feel of Steven again, in his arms, wrapped around him.

"I'm really glad you're all right," Steven murmurs into his ear, voice cracked and thick, and for an instant he tightens his arms around Brendan's neck, squeezes hard like he can't help it, a natural instinct or an overwhelming urge to hold on tighter.

Brendan closes his eyes.

Then Steven's breaking the hug and hurrying away with his head down, a hand half covering his face.

"Steven," Brendan says, futile and desperate, heart thundering against his ribs and throat swollen raw with everything he feels.

His eyes are misty as he watches Steven walk out the door without looking back.

::: :::

He doesn't leave the coffee shop for another hour, and he's in no mood to speak to anyone for the rest of the night. He has plans for his bed, a bottle of whiskey, and thinking of nothing.

The world has other ideas.

"There's a Ms Minniver waiting for you in the bar, sir," says the concierge the instant Brendan makes it inside the hotel.

His heart jolts, and he could almost collapse with relief when he sees her propping up the bar, skirt entirely too short and hair bigger than ever.

A familiar, friendly face. And not just any face—_Anne_.

When she turns to find him standing there looking at him, her expression softens into sympathy, and she points a finger at him.

"Now you look like a man who's in dire need of getting trollied."

He smiles. He can't help it. "You read my mind."

When she hugs him, it takes him a long moment to let go. She doesn't mention it though; just holds on until he loosens his grip and then grabs him by the shoulders, searches his face, then spins him around and marches him out.

They end up in a gritty backstreet bar and despite all the attention she's getting from sweaty old men and twitchy young lads she'd eat for breakfast, her attention stays on him way past the fourth and fifth drink until she has him loose enough to spill his feelings, makes him tell her everything.

"You mean he _didn't_ fall into your bed the minute he saw you? I'm shocked, Brendan, really."

"It's not about that," he grumbles, but he lets her take the piss out of him for a while longer, if only because it's familiar, and he really needs familiar.

"Give it time," she says a while later. "You put that poor boy through hell."

It makes a swell of emotion rise in his throat.

"Who are you putting through hell?" he asks, desperate to change the subject.

"Still disgustingly single. Haven't found anyone who can handle all of this."

"Put up with all of it, you mean," he says, and she tutts and punches him, then she makes him buy shots, and three hours later they're tumbling into bed together, Mitzeee's elbows and knees digging into him as she tries to get comfy.

His mind is blessedly blank.

::: :::

"Two cod and one steak, not one cod and two steaks."

Ste blinks. "What?"

Manny's standing in front of him, holding the two plates Ste's just sent out for service.

"You got the order mixed up."

Ste huffs, feeling himself redden. "Sorry—sorry—" he says, rushing to take the plates off Manny's hands. "I'll re-do it now."

"Where's your head tonight?" Manny asks, squinting at him.

"Sorry."

"Stop saying sorry and talk to me. Do you need another night off?"

"No, I need to work." He bins the wasted meals, refires the hob. His palms are clammy, and he feels as though he's not had one moment of relaxation since he returned from his meeting with Brendan. Hasn't been able to properly calm down. "I need…I need the distraction."

"Is it that fella?"

"It's always that fella," Ste says, snorting, his tone bitter even to his own ears.

Manny considers him, watches him lay a fresh steak in the pan. "He's got you pretty messed up," he says, intuitive as ever.

Ste makes a _hmm_ noise, refusing to give Manny's statement any weight, not right now. He needs to think of something else—literally anything else. Or he'll go out of his mind replaying this afternoon, over and over again, the look on Brendan's face, the feel of him during the hug, even the way he smelled. "It's what he does best."

"Do you need me to have a word? If he comes back in here?"

"No, it's fine," Ste says, smiling at him. "He won't listen anyway. He'll do what he wants. He always does."

"Doesn't sound like the kind of man you want following you around."

Even now, Ste can't help but defend him. "That's not what he's doing."

"No? Then what is?"

"I don't know," Ste mutters, head swimming again, threatening to send him into that abyss of longed-for memories and emotions. "I don't know what he wants."

"Think maybe you should find out?" Manny asks, and yeah, he probably should.

But he's worried that next time he won't be able to walk away.

He works late. Manny tells him repeatedly that he can go home, service is finished, but he stays behind and helps out elsewhere, mops the floor of the restaurant, gives Manny a hand cashing up. Everything he does is one step towards not thinking, and that's his only goal right now.

He still lays awake half the night.

By the time he makes it to Amy's the following morning, he's exhausted but determined to put on a brave face. Amy's too involved, and she can't know how affected he is, how much he's struggling to contain it all.

He finds her in the garden, watching Tommy fiddle with something by the patio doors.

"What's going on out here?"

"He's trying to put the barbeque together," she says, casually sipping from a mug of tea and squinting at her husband.

He frowns. "Bit early, innit?"

"It's for Sunday," she murmurs. "We're having a few people over. Can you make some stuff? Potato salad or whatever."

"Yeah," he says, "all right."

She turns to face him, bites her bottom lip before speaking again. "I was thinking about inviting Brendan."

His head throbs at the temples. "The kids ready for school? I've gotta—"

"Ste, if you don't want me to…"

"It's fine," he says, stepping back into the house and away from her, "do what you want. Leah! Come on, you're gonna be late."

"Ste—"

He shakes his head, hurries back to the front door, desperately trying to fish his car keys out of his pocket. "I need to get the kids to school, Amy, sorry."

"I wanted to talk about how it went yesterday—"

"Yeah, I'll call you later!" He slams the front door behind himself and stands for a moment, breathing, feeling his heart rate ease into something less painful.

Then he gets in the car and waits for the kids, forehead against the steering wheel until the doors open and he sits up with a strained, overly bright smile.

"Are those things surgically attached to his head or what?" he asks five minutes later, peering at Lucas through the rear view mirror. The lad's got his headphones on again, furiously scrolling through the iPod his mum got him for Christmas.

"I think so," Leah mumbles from beside him. She's graduated to an iPhone, which she never seems to be without. She's staring at it now, carefully angled away from his curious gaze.

"You know, we never—"

"—had any of that in your day, I know."

"What's up with you?" he asks, glancing at her. She's wearing a frown.

"Nothing."

"Come on," he says, because he knows his daughter, and he knows when she's keeping something from him. "Tell me."

It takes her a few moments, but then she sighs and lowers her phone, looks across at him. "I remember him."

His fingers clench around the steering wheel. "Who?"

"Brendan," she says softly. "Not much, but he's there. Soon as I saw him…"

"Right." He swallows painfully, his heart racing yet again. At this rate, he'll be dead before he even has to properly worry over what he's going to do about Brendan.

"I don't remember anything that happened but I'm not stupid," she says, still frowning. She looks older than her years all of a sudden, making his stomach clench with concern. "I've heard you and Mum talk."

He considers his words carefully. "Those conversations were never for your ears."

"Shouldn't have 'em in the next room then."

She's got a point.

"You've got nothing to worry about, right," he says, attempting a smile.

Negotiating a roundabout takes his attention, but Leah's not letting it go just yet. Stubborn, like her mother.

"I'm not worried about us," she says. "I'm worried about you. I know he was the reason you…you know. Why you got so messed up."

He sighs heavily. "Older than your years, you are."

"Yeah, well," she says, her tone sombre now, "seeing your dad go through hell kinda makes you grow up quick."

It makes him wince, makes him glad Lucas can't hear them. They've both been through so much, but Leah's the one who's old enough to remember it all, to have been there, old enough to understand.

Sometimes Ste thinks he doesn't deserve to be a parent.

"I'm fine, I promise you," he says, lifting one hand from the wheel to find her hand and squeeze it. "Brendan being here isn't gonna change anything. I won't let it happen to me again."

He needs her to believe that, more than he can believe it himself.

::: :::

Brendan's woken up by an annoying, insistent knocking, and then the sound of Mitzeee groaning and pulling the blanket over her head.

He stumbles out of bed, bleary eyed, alert enough to ensure he's semi decent before opening the door.

If it's housekeeping, he has every intention of slamming the door in her face.

It's not housekeeping. It's Amy.

"Hey," she says brightly, smiling, before taking in the state of him. "Bad time?"

"Uh…"

She pushes past him, enters the room, turning her nose up at the mess he and Mitzeee left it in before crawling into bed.

"I just came to see how it went yesterday with—oh my god." She's noticed the bed, and the human-shaped lump buried in it. "You've got to be joking. You couldn't even go a week before jumping into bed with someone else! I can't believe I actually thought you'd—"

Mitzeee pushes the blanket down, exposing her rat's nest of a head and her makeup-smeared face.

"Only me," she says awkwardly, giving an odd little wave.

Amy blinks at her. "Oh."

"We got a bit drunk last night," Brendan explains, shifting his feet. "Crashed."

Amy shakes her head. She's gone faintly red. "Yeah, I—sorry."

"Don't apologise."

"No, I just…after everything you said, I was just surprised to find…but it's not, so it's okay."

"I'm not what you think I am, Amy," he says quietly, crossing his arms and looking down at his feet. "Not anymore."

"I don't—I don't think anything. Listen, I'll leave you to…get dressed. I just—I was gonna ask how it went but that can wait. But look," she says, smiling at him, "we're having a barbeque on Sunday. I'd like you to come. You too," she adds to Mitzeee, not sounding particularly sincere. Then she looks back at Brendan. "Ste knows I'm inviting you."

"He'll be there?"

"Yes."

He tries not to let anything show on his face.

"Should I bring anything?"

"It's bring-a-bottle, so…"

"Right, yeah, I can do that."

"Okay, good. Okay. Uh…I'll just go now. Nice to see you, Mitzeee."

"And you," Mitzeee says, giving one of her fake grins. "Well," she adds, once Amy's left and Brendan's collapsed on the edge of the bed. "That's just the in you need, isn't it? Relaxing Sunday, few drinks… He might actually listen to you." She yawns, attempts to run fingers through her hair. "I'm not going, by the way. Can't stand barbeques. Half-cooked meat and warm beer. Ugh."

"Thanks," he says dryly. "You're very supportive."

"I'm the best friend you've ever had and you know it. Now pass me my knickers before I streak through this room and make you bring up last night's tequila."

::: :::

"Will you stop?" Jamie snaps suddenly, making Ste startle.

"Stop what? I'm not doing anything."

Jamie gives a stern look to Ste's leg, which he's been jittering up and down for the past five minutes without realising it.

"Oh," Ste says. "Sorry."

It's a warm day, better than Ste expected, and the rich scent of barbeque meat is wafting over to him. But he's in no position to enjoy the weather or the food.

Any minute now, Brendan will walk out of that door and into this garden.

He gulps down half his cup of lemonade.

"You need to calm down."

"I am calm." Ste smiles at him. "Nothing wrong with me."

"You reckon."

He tries to front it out, but in the end he deflates and sighs, slumps back in his deck chair. "Just give me a break. I'm trying to deal with it."

"Looks like it." Jamie eyes him with great scepticism before casting his gaze around the garden, at all the guests already gathered here. Amy's over by the barbeque, supervising Tommy's attempts at cooking, while the guests sit around in various chairs and stools, many of them half cut already.

Jamie huffs out a laugh all of a sudden. "Well I, for one, can't wait to meet this Brendan. Always been on my bucket list," he says, nodding at Ste. "Share a hotdog with a murderer."

"He's not a—"

"I'll tell you something, though," Jamie pushes on. He points a finger at the patio. "Better be James fucking Dean walking through that door, the way he had you under a spell."

"Weren't like that," Ste says, squirming.

Jamie stares at him. "Is he good-looking?"

"Shut up," Ste mumbles.

"No, come on. Am I gonna question my sexuality when he turns up?"

Despite himself, Ste smiles. "I did," he admits, feeling the flush crawl up his neck.

Jamie's eyebrows shoot up. "He turned you gay?"

"You're an idiot," Ste says flatly. "But yeah, he…helped me figure it out."

"Bet he did." Jamie's smirk is filthy, before he sobers, expression morphing into concern. "What're you gonna do when he gets here?"

Ste shrugs. "Talk to him. I need…we need to talk." He's thought about it, thought of nothing else. The problem isn't going to go away with him burying his head in the sand. He needs to take everyone's advice and confront it, speak to Brendan, let him know he's fine, that he doesn't need him anymore.

That's his plan.

Amy comes hurrying over, her eyes wide.

"Brendan's just pulled up out front," she says to him in a hushed, conspiratorial voice. "Thought I should let you know. You gonna be all right?"

He attempts a reassuring smile. "I'm fine."

She nods, gives him a look of veiled worry, before rushing off again.

"What if something pisses him off?" Jamie asks into the fresh silence.

Ste's too distracted with staring at the patio doors to pay too much attention to him. "What?"

"Like, what if someone hands him an undercooked burger. Is he gonna whip out a machete and start chopping off heads?"

"Yeah. Yeah, probably. Don't look him in the eye either. That was the last guy's mistake."

"I want it on record that I find all of this vaguely alarming."

"Shut up," Ste says, watching the familiar, formidable sight of Brendan stepping through the patio doors. "He's here."

Ste's heart is in his throat.

"Where?" Jamie asks, craning his head around to search the crowd.

Brendan spots him immediately. Gives him a long, heated look before his attention is stolen by Amy, who approaches him, puts her hand on his arm. Ste can't hear what they're saying to each other. He's itching to know.

"Wow," Jamie breathes.

Ste snorts, even while unable to take his eyes off Brendan. "You gay now?"

"Not 'wow', he's hot. 'Wow', the look he just gave you."

"Weren't any kind of look," Ste mumbles, squirming again.

"Are you blind? He just…he always look at you like that?"

Ste brings his cup to his mouth, mutters into it. "I dunno." He can feel his face burning.

"He's kind of intense." By the looks of it, Jamie's having enough trouble of his own taking his eyes off Brendan.

"Stop it."

"That whole smouldering appeal."

"Seriously, shut up."

"Bet he's a demon in the sack," Jamie says with a sudden grin. "Rocked your world, did he?"

He forces another, mildly embarrassed smile out of Ste. "He might've," he admits, tummy flipping over at the thought.

Sex was the one thing they always got right, no matter what.

"Made you see God?"

"Shh, shut up, he's coming over."

Ste sits up straight, makes a rapid effort to straighten his clothing. He has no idea why he cares enough to do so.

Brendan stops before him, looking infuriatingly amazing in his tight t-shirt and torn black jeans. Ste shifts his weight, presses his thighs together.

"Steven."

"Hiya," he says awkwardly. "Amy said Mitzeee was coming with you."

"She couldn't make it. I just—" Brendan gestures at the table behind Ste, where all the beers are being kept in the coolers.

"Oh," says Ste, gulping a little. "Yeah." He leans to the side to allow Brendan to reach past him for a beer, bringing them entirely too close to each other.

Ste can smell his aftershave, feel the heat of his skin.

As Brendan straightens again, his fingers are white-knuckled around the can. Ste's breath is thick in his chest.

They're staring at each other again.

"I'm Jamie."

They both look over at him in surprise. It's not that Ste forgot he was there; he's just always had trouble seeing anything else when Brendan's around.

Brendan nods at him. "Brendan."

"Heard a lot about you," Jamie says.

"Not all bad, I hope."

"Nah…" says Jamie, waving a dismissive hand. "Just you went to prison for killing someone and you're a stallion in bed."

Ste's stomach lurches and he lowers his head, presses fingers to his burning forehead. "Oh my god."

"Hm," he hears Brendan murmur. "Okay, good talk."

When Ste feels brave enough to look up again, Brendan's back over the other side of the garden, approaching Tommy at the barbeque.

Ste smacks Jamie's arm. "What'd you say that for?" he hisses.

"What?" says Jamie, all innocence, his eyes dancing.

"God."

"He's, uh…"

"What?"

"I dunno. Impressive."

Ste's not even really listening. He can feel a panic coming on, something hot and overwhelming, itching at his skin.

"I've gotta go," he says, mostly to himself.

"What—why?"

"I just… I can't be here," Ste says, getting to his feet. "With him."

"Ste, come on." Jamie stands, put a hand on Ste's shoulder. "You can't let it get to you."

"You don't understand," Ste says, scrubbing a hand over his face. He has no idea where this feeling has come from—he just knows he needs to be anywhere but here, sharing space and air with Brendan fucking Brady. "None of this makes any fucking sense."

"You need to talk to him."

"And say what?" he snaps, nausea rising in his throat. "Thanks for cutting me out five years ago?"

"Yeah, if you like. Do you really think he's going to let you go?"

"He already did." He brushes Jamie's hand off, drops his empty cup on the table. "I'll see you later."

::: :::

Brendan's giving it a good effort, listening to Tommy talk to him about the new car he wants to buy. He's nodding along, idly sipping his beer, pretending he can't feel the very presence of Steven somewhere behind him.

Then Steven, out of nowhere, rushes past him, his head low. Something's got him in a hurry.

"Sorry," he says to Tommy. "I need to—Steven. Steven, wait." He manages to put his beer down and dart across quick enough to catch Steven by the wrist. "Where you going?"

Steven wrenches his arm away as if burned and then looks up at Brendan. He has something like fury in his eyes, enough to take Brendan aback.

"Home."

"Already?" Brendan says. This can't be happening, not again. The third time Steven's hurried away from him. "Party's just started. Have a beer."

"No," Steven says firmly. He sighs then, rubs his forehead. "Look, I need to go. You…you stay though. Have fun."

He walks away, through the patio doors.

Brendan follows him.

"I'm not here for them," he says to Steven's back, and his voice echoes in the silence of the living room. It seems darker in here after the sunlight of outside, the edges of his vision shadowed.

Steven stalls in his rush to get through the room, comes to a stop. "Brendan…"

Brendan approaches him from behind, slowly and carefully. Doesn't touch him, as much as he wants to. "Please," he murmurs. "Let's just talk."

Steven huffs, a sound of pure frustration, and then turns. Looks up at Brendan with defiance. "I don't have anything to say."

"I know that's not true," he says, and Steven shakes his head, his expression incredulous.

"Why are you even here?"

"I wanted to see you. I thought…"

"What?" Steven snaps. "That I wanted to see you too?" That anger is back in his eyes. "D'you think I've just been sat around pining for the last five years? Just waiting for you to come back? Well I haven't," he says, his tone cold and firm. "All right? I got over you a long time ago." He pauses, perhaps to gauge Brendan's reaction.

Brendan doesn't flinch, even if the words tear him up on the inside.

"Go home, Brendan, wherever that is," Steven says heavily. "There's nothing for you here." Then he turns to leave again.

Panic floods Brendan, panic and his own brand of subdued anger. "Wait, _wait_—just stop."

"No, I don't wanna hear it, Brendan!" Steven's eyes are full of fire when he looks at him again. "You threw everything away the day you cut me out."

"I didn't cut you out—I went to prison."

"You finished it," Steven says, with frightening finality. "Just leave it finished."

"I didn't—Jesus Christ, Steven, you make it sound like I had a choice. I thought I was going away for life. I wasn't gonna make you wait for me—"

"But you didn't get life though, did you, Brendan?" Steven's thrumming with energy, and Brendan can sense what's coming—it's as if now Steven's started, he's not going to stop. Like a cork popping out of a bottle—everything he's kept to himself all this time, bubbling out.

Brendan might not like what Steven has to say, but he wants to hear it, more than anything else in the world right now.

"You got a few years," Steven continues. "You found out five years ago that you were gonna be released before I was thirty and still you thought it best I moved on. Well congratulations, you succeeded. I did move on. You're not a part of my life anymore."

It cuts at him, he can't hide that. Steven's vocalising every nightmare he's had while separated from him.

He takes a desperate step forward. "No, Steven—"

"I would've been there," Steven says suddenly, voice lowered and intense, hand raised and finger pointed and his voice spilling through clenched teeth. "Every week. And I would've written and called and kept everything going for you in the village. What's five years in a lifetime together?"

"I didn't want you to put your life on hold for me," Brendan says urgently, trying to make him understand, _needing_ him to understand.

"_You_ were my life. Did you ever get that? Sad thing is," Steven says, face twisting into something that makes Brendan's chest clench with pain, "turns out _I_ wasn't worth you waiting for me."

"Don't say that," he says, throat thick, his eyes burning. "You know that's not true."

"Isn't it? The day you get your sentence you pick up the phone and you tell the man you're supposed to _love_ that you'll be home soon, back home to him. If I ever meant anything to you—"

"It wouldn't have been enough. Visits, phone calls. It's not a damn relationship, Steven, it's—"

"Not worth it?" Steven says, eyebrow raised. "Seeing me every week, hearing my voice on the phone, reading my letters—not worth your time?"

"Stop—stop _twisting_ it."

"Or is it because you couldn't get laid then?" he continues, vicious now, aiming to hurt. "Couldn't sleep with me, but because we would've still technically been together, you couldn't sleep with anyone else either?"

"I'm not even gonna answer that," Brendan says flatly. This isn't a topic that's worth his time.

"So you didn't then? Sleep with any of the men in prison?"

When Brendan fails to answer immediately, when his gaze slips away while he struggles to find the right words, Steven huffs out a pained, bitter laugh.

"Right."

"I was in there a long time, Steven."

"Did it give you a little thrill," Steven asks, smiling now, the worst smile Brendan's ever seen on his face, "rejecting all of my visit requests? Make you feel good, did it?"

"I did what I thought was best."

"I would've waited my whole life for you," Steven says, and when his voice breaks, when his words crack, Brendan's heart breaks for him, for them both. "You—you couldn't even wait five years."

"It wasn't like that," he tries, desperate, futile, pathetic.

Steven's eyes are swimming with moisture before he looks down for a moment, presses his thumb and finger to the bridge of his nose. "I mean it when I say I'm glad you're all right," he says, looking up again. His voice is softer now, but no less cold. "And I really hope you get the life you want now. But I can't be part of it. Not again."

Then, once again, he turns and leaves Brendan standing there alone, silently begging for the right words, any words, that will make Steven stay. Make him listen.

Urgency and panic has him rushing after Steven, grabbing his shoulder again. "Don't walk away from me."

Steven looks around at him. His eyes are empty now, holding nothing. It terrifies Brendan enough that he sucks in a breath, releases his hold on Steven's shoulder.

"You made me, remember? This is what you wanted."

"No…"

"You made this decision for the both us. Now you live with it. Just like I've had to. Goodbye, Brendan."


	4. Chapter 4

Brendan's seeing red—the red of frustration, the red of anger, the red of pure, heartaching helplessness. He can't catch a break here with Steven and it's driving him _crazy_.

He storms back out to the garden, almost toppling over some old lady he thinks is the mother of Amy's fella. She makes a startled noise of indignation but he ignores her, heads straight for the man Steven's so close to.

Amy notices him striding past, tries to waylay him. "Brendan, is everything—"

He pays her no attention, gets up close to this Jamie bloke and plants his hands on either side of his deck chair, leans down into his face.

"You," he snarls over Jamie's startled squeak and his widening eyes. "Tell me where Steven lives."

"Brendan—" Amy again, trying to pull on his arm, get him to back off.

He shakes her off, glares at Jamie. "Tell me."

"I can't," Jamie says, shaking his head, the skin of his face blanching in his fear. "I'm sorry."

Brendan leans closer, fists a hand in the front of the man's shirt, drops his voice to a menacing growl. "I'm not in the mood for bullshit, James."

"Look, I know you're _extremely_ capable of hurting me a lot," Jamie says frantically, trying to shrink back in the chair with nowhere to go, "but I won't give you his address. I just won't." He lifts his hands in a gesture of submission. "So do your worst."

This close, so intimidatingly close, Brendan can see the reflection of himself in Jamie's terrified eyes, and it's enough to snap him out of it.

"No, you're right," he says in a moment of startling realisation. This is what people expect of him. Violence, danger, pain. Even those who've never met him before—going on hearsay and rumour, on his reputation. This is the version of himself he's trying to control for the sake of Steven, for their future. He shifts back, stands upright. "You're right," he says again, nodding. Jamie blows out a breath of relief and smooths out his shirt.

Brendan's mind is already ticking over to Plan B.

"Brendan, you need to calm down," Amy mutters to him. She takes his arm to make him turn to face her. She's wearing an earnest expression when she adds, "Ste will come to you when he's ready."

"Yeah, yeah." He smiles tightly, rubs a hand over his brow. "I just—can I use your bathroom?"

She squints at him, assessing his mood now, if it's safe to let him go wandering off alone. Then she nods. "Just up the stairs on the right."

"Thanks."

He doesn't go anywhere near the bathroom. He makes his way to the kitchen, checks he's alone, and closes the door behind himself. Then, quick as lightning, he rummages through all of her drawers, searching for something—anything—to give him some idea as to Steven's location.

He hits his mark so quickly he can't help but laugh at his luck.

There's a small address book in the back of one of the drawers, the handwriting indicating it's not Amy's—trust that fella of hers to still write down addresses, in this age when everything's so digital. He turns to the 'S' page, finds three addresses under the name of Ste Hay. The one at the bottom has fresher ink, and that's the one he commits to memory before putting the book back and closing the drawer, checking he's leaving everything the way he found it.

He slips out of Amy's house without announcing his departure, and five minutes later he's pulling up outside Steven's small mid-terraced house.

Steven answers the door almost immediately, and the expression on his face suggests Brendan was the last person he expected to find on the other side of it.

He huffs out a breath and grumbles, "Oh great. This is just great. Who told you I lived here? Amy?"

"No one," says Brendan, half distracted. There are red circles lining Steven's eyes, making his chest ache. "Figured it out myself."

"Yeah, proper smart, you are. Well you can leave now," Steven says, still just as cold. "I've got nothing else to say to you."

But Brendan's not paying attention to his words. "You've been crying," he murmurs, stepping forward slightly, needing to get closer, an instinctive urge to comfort. Despite everything inside him screaming not to be so stupid, he lifts his hand, reaches for Steven's face.

"I haven't, get off," Steven snaps, slapping his hand away before it can make contact.

"Steven."

"It's hay fever."

"You don't get hay fever," Brendan points out mildly, and Steven rolls those sore, red-rimmed eyes, his cheeks colouring slightly.

"What d'you want?" His tone is less confrontational now; Brendan wonders what kind of conversation he's had with himself between now and their argument at the barbeque. Wonders if the conversation has swung anything in his favour, even the smallest amount.

He keeps hold of that hope. "To talk," he says. "I can't leave with us on bad terms."

Steven raises his eyebrows. "So you are gonna leave then?"

"I didn't come here to make life difficult for you." It hurts to say it, to concede to Steven's demands that he go away. But if it's what Steven wants, what he truly wants, then there's very little else Brendan can do. He's not here to force him into anything. He wants Steven, all of him, but without condition. "If you need me to leave, then…"

He waits for the immediate agreement, but it doesn't come. Steven stares at him, jaw clenched, reminding Brendan of another moment of indecision—when he'd first told Steven he loved him, that he had the choice to walk out of the door if he didn't feel the same, and Steven's whole face had twisted in uncertainty and stubbornness and the slow thawing of determination. And then he'd given in, thrown Brendan against a wall and taken everything he wanted.

He doesn't give in now, but he doesn't send Brendan away again either.

"You're not coming in," he mutters, reluctance in his tone. "I'm not—I can't have you in my space."

"That's fine," Brendan says, too quickly, allowing too much of the hope to show. He reins it in, tries to come off more casual. "Uh…I'm just staying in a hotel, but it's got a pretty decent bar?"

Steven, his jaw still set in tense lines, his eyes stormy with conflicted emotions, nods his agreement. "I'll meet you there."

Brendan's heart thunders against his ribcage. "All right. It's the Grand Harbour." He smiles and turns to leave, stopped by Steven's voice.

"Brendan—"

Brendan looks at him again, waits.

Steven takes a breath. "It's just. You can have your say. But that's it. This doesn't mean—"

"I know," Brendan says, heavy and comforting all at once. Steven gives him a long, troubled look before closing the door.

::: :::

Ste stops by the restaurant first, an effort to buy himself some more time, get his head straight before having to face Brendan again.

He never wanted Brendan to find him crying. It was the worst possible way of exposing his weakness and he's angry at himself for it, angry at Brendan for making it happen. And that anger is still lingering in him, enough that he doesn't want to see Brendan yet, not until he's got a lid on his emotions.

"Hiya," he says to Manny, finding him in his office. "Just coming to let you know I might be a little bit late for my shift this evening."

"That's fine," Manny says, distracted, rubbing his temples and frowning. "We don't have many bookings anyway."

Ste squints at him in concern. "You all right?"

"Yeah… Just this damn headache."

"Maybe you should go to the doctor." He's been saying it for weeks, these headaches getting more frequent, slowing Manny down at work.

The guy's a stubborn bastard though.

"Nah, it'll pass. Listen, Linda's making cottage pie tomorrow if you've got no plans."

"Never got plans, me," Ste says with a smile.

"Just thought with that fella in town—"

"He's leaving." He says it with certainty, even if there's no strength of conviction behind the words.

Manny considers him. "That's what you want?"

He doesn't know how to put into words what he's feeling. The thought of Brendan leaving after only just coming back would've destroyed him before. Now, though… He huffs a helpless laugh. "The idea of putting all my faith in him again…"

"Not worth it?"

Ste shakes his head, offers Manny a wry smile. "He has a history of breaking my heart."

"He ever does that again, I'll be breaking his face."

His affection for Manny puts him in a better mood and he feels more able to see Brendan again now, enters the hotel bar with his head high and confidence in his step.

Brendan's sat at a table in the middle of the room, and he stands up when Ste approaches. "Hey," he says softly, "glad you made it."

"Said I would, didn't I?" He tries to smile, but he's pretty sure he fails. Instead he takes a seat, folds his hands in his lap.

"Beer?" says Brendan, moving to go to the bar. He's looking down at Ste as if he's not quite sure he's seeing him.

"No, just a lemonade, please." Brendan doesn't know about the alcoholism, doesn't _need_ to know about it. Letting Brendan in on that revelation will do nothing to convince him that Ste managed to move on with some degree of ease.

"You sure?"

"Yes," says Ste, snappish almost. "I've got work after this."

"Okay."

He goes to the bar, glances over his shoulder a time or two to check Ste's still there, and comes back with a bottle of beer and a glass of lemonade. Ste feels a little guilty, that he's made Brendan so unsure, so worried that he will just vanish when he's not looking. But then he remembers that Brendan vanished for five years, and he stops caring about any guilt.

"So," says Brendan after he's taken a sip of his beer, "you like living down here?"

Ste shrugs. "It's all right. I needed the fresh start." He looks away from Brendan to his own fingers wrapped tightly around his glass. "Too many memories in that place."

There's a pause, and then: "Steven, you know if I could go back and change things—"

"Well you can't," Ste says abruptly, putting an end to that line of conversation. He's had those thoughts, a thousand and one times in recent years, and they've done nothing to help him, done nothing but fill him with despair. He clears his throat, attempts to soften his expression. "How was prison anyway?"

Part of him doesn't want to know. The last time Brendan went to prison, he came out a shadow of his former self. It hadn't been easy to see, and it had sliced him to pieces inside, knowing Brendan was heading there again, putting himself through that hell once more.

Brendan gives him a level stare. "How do you expect me to answer that? It was prison."

"You didn't get any trouble while you were in there?" he asks delicately. The last thing he wants is to bring any bad memories to the forefront of Brendan's mind.

"Nothing I couldn't handle. You adapt pretty quickly, once you accept the fact you'll be in there for a while."

Brendan's statement reminds Ste of another line of thought he's had in the past, one he clung onto to help him cope with the gaping void Brendan's absence left him. He voices it now, this thought, wants to see Brendan's reaction to it.

"You know you were in prison longer than I ever knew you on the outside."

It's startled him, that realisation; Ste can see it in the tense line of his lips as he presses them together.

"Doesn't mean anything."

"In fact," Ste pushes, "we spent more time at each other's throats than being together."

Brendan scratches at his jaw in his agitation, shifts in his seat. It gives Ste a sick thrill, knowing he still has the power to affect Brendan so clearly.

"What point are you trying to make?"

"I'm just saying," Ste says with a shrug he hopes comes across as careless. "When you think about it, what were we ever really holding on to?"

"Steven—"

Ste sighs, the façade breaking at the dark look flittering in Brendan's eyes. "Why are you even here, Brendan?" he asks tiredly. "You and me—it's in the past."

Brendan doesn't answer immediately. He runs his fingers up and down his beer bottle, considers his words. Once upon a time Brendan would spit out anything to get the response he wanted.

"That day in the hospital," he says slowly, "before they took me away, I made you a promise."

A lump develops in Ste's throat, a maddening swell of emotion. With just a few words, a flashback to the past, and Brendan's able to chip away at his cold defence.

Ste swallows, his voice coming out with a hitch to it. "You've never made me a promise that you haven't broken."

"Not this one," Brendan says, shaking his head. "This one I kept."

_I'm never gonna feel any differently about you, I promise you, okay?_

He chokes out a bitter laugh. "You really expect me to believe you still love me?" He looks Brendan square in the eye. "These days, Brendan, I can barely believe that you ever did."

Brendan leans forward, puts his hand flat in the middle of the table. "You can think what you like of me," he says, voice low and intense, "but I won't have you believing I ever lied about my feelings for you."

Ste stares at him, stares into his eyes, stares into the face of their past together, him and Brendan against the world, when it all made sense—when it was hard, and painful, but full of such a powerful love that he could barely breathe with it, woke up every morning wondering if it was a dream, if he and Brendan had really made it.

But they didn't make it. They got close, so close, and then had it all snatched away.

"Don't matter anyway," he says, his voice hollow. "It's history."

"Not for me." Brendan sits back in his chair, pins Ste with a gaze of pure sincerity. "I've wasted too much of my life, Steven," he says, spreading his hands, offering himself for Ste's inspection, "so I'm just gonna lay it all on the line for you now—I'm here for you. I'm here because I want you in my life. I want us to have the future we talked about. You and me, together."

His words are met with the thunderous beat of Ste's heart. The swell of emotion in his throat rises, threatening to choke him, and his eyes are stinging behind the lids. He blinks, and he curls his hand into a fist, and he tries to speak past the constriction in his throat.

"You-you can't just cut me out for the past five years and then just—"

Brendan huffs out a breath of exasperation. "Jesus, Steven, will you stop with that?"

"It's true, though," Ste says, a higher pitch to his tone, emotion making him careless in his reactions, in how he presents himself to Brendan. "You forced me to move on. So I moved on."

"If you really feel nothing for me anymore," Brendan says, leaning forward again, halfway across the table, his voice quiet but forceful, desperate, "nothing at all, then I'll walk away. You'll never see me again. Is that what you want?"

Ste hesitates, his throat burning raw and stealing his words, his heart racing. Brendan's so close, and he's speaking with such conviction, and Ste's gone so _long _trying to convince himself he's dealt with it all…

"Steven, please," Brendan pushes, staring deep into Ste's eyes, pleading with him. And Ste can't cope, feels like the walls are closing in on him, feels as if everyone in this bar has vanished and it's just him and Brendan in a bubble, a bubble filling with years of pent-up grief and soul-crushing need, and Brendan's looking at him like he's the only thing in this world that's keeping him breathing. "_Please_."

Ste breaks, too weighed down by the emotion of it all. "For god's sake, Brendan," he chokes, hating the tear that slips from his eye and courses down his cheek, hating the stricken look on Brendan's face as he tracks the tear's journey, his hand on the table twitching like he wants to reach up and brush it away, brush all the pain away.

He sits back with a broken sigh. "I'll get us another drink," he says, quietly, getting to his feet, "give you a minute." There's a shimmer to his eyes that makes Ste's breath hitch.

He takes the opportunity to compose himself while Brendan's gone, takes a few calming breaths and drinks down half his lemonade.

He doesn't know what he's achieving here, why he's putting himself through this. Brendan's not good for him, never has been. Not good for his physical or emotional wellbeing, his personal safety, his sanity. His history with Brendan is fraught with pain and darkness.

But no one's ever made him feel as loved as Brendan did, as cherished and worshipped. No one else has ever looked at him and made him feel like the most important, most special human being on the entire planet.

No one has ever loved him like Brendan did, once upon a time. And Ste's now expected to believe that he still feels the same, that nothing's changed. If Brendan still loves him with the same intensity Ste knows he once did—

He can't pretend it doesn't mean something to him. That it's not still the foundation to _everything_.

It's midway through this confusing thought that he spots a familiar face tottering into the bar. "Mitzeee," he says, catching her attention as she passes him, heading towards Brendan, who's caught up in a queue, waiting for the bartender's attention.

Ste had no idea the place had got so busy.

"Ste!" she says, noticing him and grinning. "How are you?" She leans down to kiss his cheek before taking Brendan's seat opposite.

She doesn't look much different—same massive hair, same tiny dress. She's still stunning, and remains the only woman who's ever made him question his sexuality since coming out.

"I'm fine," he says, smiling. "How's, uh—the baby—"

"Phoenix. And not a baby anymore." She flashes her phone screen at him, showing him the image of a young lad sitting in his mother's lap. "Right little devil."

"Just like his mum," he says, laughing.

She winks at him, slipping her phone back into her bag. "You here with Brendan?"

It's a stupid question. They both know the answer to that, but he understands why she's tiptoeing around it.

"He's just getting a drink."

"How's it going—you and him?" She's using that hushed, conspiratorial voice of hers, the same one she used to adopt when fishing for gossip.

"It's…I don't know." He shrugs, and then admits, "My head's all over the place."

"He's so desperate to make things right, you know."

"Might be too late for that," he says with a tight smile.

"It's never too late to get what you want," she says, like such empty platitudes mean anything. "He used to ask about you all the time. Every time one of us went in, he'd ask if we had any news on you. Of course I could never tell him much, but—"

His stomach jolts. "You visited him?"

"Yeah," she says, nodding. "Once I came back to the UK I went up there about twice a month. Cheered him up."

"Who else went to see him?"

"Uh…well Cheryl, obviously. Flew over once every few weeks or so. She can afford it now, you know—that millionaire of hers." Her eyes narrow with distaste. "Cow."

"Anyone else?" He feels sick all of a sudden, nausea churning his stomach, and when she continues, his ears start ringing, his body flooding with ice.

"His boys I think, once Eileen got her head out of her backside. Um…not sure who else. Don't worry, Ste. He was well looked after by the lot of us. We took him everything he needed. Wrote him stupid letters—"

"So basically everyone he loved," he spits, the edges of his vision flashing red. "That's what you're telling me? Everyone he loved got to visit him and write to him and—"

The penny drops, making her realise what she's saying—her eyes widen in panic, face running pale. "Ste, listen to me—"

"No," he says, shoving his chair back and getting to his feet. "No. I can't believe—"

Can't believe he was starting to buy into all of Brendan's bullshit.

"He loved you more than _anything_, okay?" she pushes, reaching out a hand to him. "That's why he had to let you go."

She's trying to help, the best she knows how. It leaves him with the taste of ash in the back of his throat.

"People need to stop telling me that because it's not fucking working. I'm done. You can tell him I don't want to see him ever again."

"Ste—"

He storms away quicker than her heels can carry her, and he doesn't dare look back at Brendan.

::: :::

Brendan goes back to the table to find Mitzeee and no Steven. He blinks.

"Where's Steven?"

Mitzeee's wearing an alarming expression of guilt when she grimaces up at him. "I, uh—I came to find you, wanted to see what we were doing tonight."

"Mitzeee," he says slowly, putting the drinks down, "where's Steven?"

"I'm sorry." She winces, her shoulders hunching. "I've done something stupid."

Dread fills his gut. If his progress with Steven has been fucked up—

"Where is he?"

"He left," she says warily. "He said—he doesn't want to see you."

"_Shit_—"

He rushes out of the bar and into the lobby, searches around. His search outside yields nothing, and he goes back to the bar with his heavy heart sinking down into his gut. He can't believe, after everything today…

"Nothing?" Mitzeee asks when he comes back to the table. She looks overcome with apology.

He slumps in his seat with a soul-deep sigh. "What did you say to him?"

"I didn't know I wasn't supposed to mention it. I just thought—"

"Anne."

"Talked about visiting you in prison," she says with another wince. "Then he asked who else so I said Cheryl, your boys… He just went off on one about how you let the people you love stay in your life but not him—"

He groans, drops his face into his hands. "Jesus fucking Christ." Everything he's been trying to convince Steven _wasn't_ true.

"I'm sorry." She reaches out to pet his arm, waits for him to look up at her before continuing in a soft, curious voice, "Why didn't you? Let him visit you."

"I didn't want him to live some kind of half life waiting for me to get out."

"It was only five years," she says gently. "He's not even thirty yet."

"That's what he said."

"Not really wasting his life, is it? Not when you have your whole future together at the end of it."

"I know." His tone is heavy, a dull headache building behind his eyes. "I know."

"You can understand why he's angry. But it's a good thing, Brendan." At his expression of disbelief, she says, "You can't change what you did, but him being angry about it now, still after all this time—it means he still cares. There's still _something_ there. You can't give up, not yet." She leans forward, drops her voice. "I know how he felt about you. You don't ever get over that kind of love."

It's what he wants to believe; it's the only hope he has to cling on to. But it's getting harder and harder to maintain that belief, and he doesn't know how much longer he can deal with this kind of rejection.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asks, a note of embarrassing dejection in his voice.

"If you think it's worth it—you fight for it," she says simply. "Don't back down just because he keeps pushing you away. And if he still doesn't—well, you know. At least you can walk away knowing you gave it everything."

Gave it everything. If he's still got more in him, then he's still got more to give—and he does, enough for one last shot.

"Can you entertain yourself this evening?"

She tutts, but her eyes are twinkling. "I get you all to myself tomorrow night though. I'm heading home on Tuesday."

::: :::

Work is not the same distraction it usually is. Ste can't clear his head enough to lose himself in cooking; keeps making stupid mistakes, fucking up orders, yet more proof of how destructive Brendan's presence in his life is.

It's not made any easier by Brendan turning up at the restaurant, sounding strung-out and on edge while questioning Manny.

"Is Steven here?"

Ste hides behind the door of the kitchen, eavesdropping, his chest tight with nerves.

"He's busy. Working. You talk to him on his own time."

After a deafening pause: "When does he finish?"

"Later. D'you mind, pal? I'm trying to run a restaurant here."

Ste gives it a couple of minutes to feel sure the coast is clear, then leaves the kitchen, gives Manny a smile of appreciation. He's looking at Ste with concern.

"Thanks," Ste says awkwardly.

"No problem."

He hangs around at work for a while after the kitchen's closed, sips his way through a glass of Coke at the bar while listening to Manny talk about his days in Italy, an effort to keep Ste's mind off things, for which Ste is grateful, even if it doesn't work.

He leaves the restaurant at just past eleven, heads out into the warm evening to find Brendan's car parked out front, and Brendan himself leaning against it.

"Steven—" he says, soon as he spots him, pushing away from the car.

Ste sighs and walks in the opposite direction. "This is stalking, Brendan," he says over his shoulder. "I can have you arrested."

"What Mitzeee said to you—"

"Don't matter." He turns and walks backwards, pins Brendan with a hard stare. "Just go away before I call the police."

Then he heads around the corner and into the local nightclub, because he knows Brendan's following, and something about this whole situation is making him reckless, an overwhelming urge to push the boundaries and press some buttons.

He wants to do something monumentally stupid, because he feels like it's the only way to put an end to this before it's too late—before he undoes all the hard work he's achieved.

There's only one sure-fire way he knows to really get to Brendan, to make him realise Ste isn't playing.

He feels the weighted heat of familiar eyes on him even as he spies a target—a man around his age, dark and slim, dancing on the edge of the crowd. He looks alone, and he appears decent enough, and he'll do. Ste doesn't care what he looks like anyway.

He doesn't bother going to the bar, hanging around, anything to prolong this. He knows Brendan's here, somewhere, that he won't give Ste much time before he comes over and tries again, muscles his way into Ste's head and heart and sanity.

Ste goes to the dark-haired man and presses in close to him.

"Hey." He's wearing his best sultry expression, a façade against the numbness in his chest.

The guy blinks at him. "Hi." Then he smiles, slow and warm, looking Ste up and down. "I'm Andrew."

Ste has no intention of giving his own name, and he doesn't have time for small talk. "Dance?"

They come together, the pulsing base line pushing into Ste's skin as Andrew's arms settle around him, sweat beading on his forehead and back, the crowd too thick and suffocating, his stomach churning, the burn of Brendan in this room somewhere, watching him.

He dances with Andrew for one song, two, gets lost in it, closes his eyes against the stinging behind his lids; holds his breath as Andrew's hands trail down his back to cup his arse.

"Look," Andrew breathes in his ear, "I'm not looking for anything—I mean, I'm just here to—"

"Me too," Ste says, swallowing, then leaning back to give Andrew a smile.

Andrew's face is flushed, and there's a tell-tale hardness pressed against Ste's hip. "You wanna…?"

They go out back and around the side of the building, into an alley, and Ste knows it's sleazy but that's the point of it. There's no need for romance.

He's moved on. He can have another man make him come, right in the presence of Brendan, and have not a single care in the world about it.

Brendan has to see this. Brendan has to understand that it's _over_.

He rubs his eyes to force back a tear as he leans back against the filthy wall, Andrew slithering to his knees in front of him and yanking his trousers down around his thighs.

He's not hard, not even close, but Andrew has a warm mouth and it's been a long time for Ste—a bit of coaxing, some skilful tongue work, and he's stiffening, a detached sort of arousal rising in his gut.

He closes his eyes against how hollow it's making him feel, the nausea churning in the pit of his stomach.

"Having fun?"

Ste was expecting him, but he still startles, eyes shooting open to find Brendan stood beside him, looking down at Andrew with a bland, empty expression on his face.

Andrew tries to pull away, Ste's cock slipping from between his slick lips.

"Go away," Ste snaps at Brendan, then pushes a hand into Andrew's hair. "No, don't stop," he urges, pulling him back to his cock. "Just ignore him." When Andrew continues to look unsure, Ste says, "Go on," in the most encouraging, lust-filled voice he can manage. It does the trick. Andrew takes him back into his mouth and gets back to work.

Ste presses his head back against the wall and closes his eyes again, tries to shut out everything but the feeling of suction and heat on his dick.

"This is what you mean by moving on, is it?"

He can feel Brendan closer now, right beside him, and his skin burns with it.

"Getting your dick sucked by randoms in a filthy alley?"

"That's—ah—rich, coming from you." His hips jolt with discomfort, Andrew's technique not quite living up to Ste's previous experiences.

"Is he good?"

Ste clenches his teeth, frustration and anger flooding through him. "Go _away_."

"Hey," Brendan says, a different tone now, and Ste opens his eyes to find him looking down at Andrew. "Hey. Slow down a bit. He prefers precision over speed."

Ste groans in disbelief. "Brendan, fuck's sake—"

"Shh," Brendan says. He comes closer still, leans sideways against the wall beside Ste, murmurs into his ear. "Just close your eyes." Then his voice rises again, just slightly, an edge of dominance in his tone. "Suck as you pull back but take it easy—you're not a hoover. That's it," he croons, and Ste can't believe this is happening, can't believe he's receiving a blowjob that Brendan's directing—can't believe how much better it feels already, Andrew following the orders, making Ste's toes curl and his heart race. "Use your tongue. Press against the slit, he likes that—see?" he says when Ste hisses, pleasure flooding his gut. "Bit harder—"

Ste's breathing is short, panting, and when he moans, "Brendan…" he doesn't know if he's trying to sound angry at him, or trying to pull him in to his arousal.

"Now take him down deep," Brendan instructs, his voice thickening, darkening. "Can you do that? Drives him crazy." Ste gasps, the head of his cock hitting the back of a throat, making his head spin. "Try swallowing around him—careful, don't want this over too soon."

Then Brendan's voice drops right down to a tone of pure sex and desire, and he's murmuring into Ste's ear, painfully, perfectly close. "Remember what my mouth feels like, Steven?" He presses forward a little, enough for Ste to feel the brush of his lips against his earlobe. "How I used to let you fuck my face until you were screaming with it?"

"Brendan, please—" He can't breathe, nails scrabbling against the wall behind him, desperate for something to hold on to as pleasure spirals through his veins and bones, his whole body trembling, shivering in this agonising heat of ecstasy.

"Remember that day I kept you on the edge for _hours_?" Brendan's lips graze against his jaw, the side of his neck, and Ste can't help it—one of his hands reaching to the side, finding Brendan's thigh, gripping. "You were a wreck; completely out of your mind on pleasure. I'd never seen anything so beautiful."

"God," he sobs, wet suction on his dick increasing, taking him deep, Brendan's burning heat pushing him close to the edge, "please, I can't…"

Brendan presses his forehead to Ste's temple and Ste nuzzles into it, his face a grimace, wants to open his eyes and look at Brendan but terrified of doing it.

Brendan's hand comes up to the other side of Ste's face, holds him close so he can whisper in his ear. "Come for me, Steven." His breath is hot, feverish, and Ste's spine shoots through with the onset of blissful orgasm. "I want you to come."

"_Fuck_…Brendan…" His hips buck, forcing his dick further down Andrew's throat; then he pulls back just in time, his spunk shooting across Andrew's tongue, his veins and muscles melting and his hips convulsing right up until the end, when his orgasm ebbs away and suddenly Brendan's pulling away from him and he opens his eyes to find him yanking Andrew up by his collar and plunging his tongue into Andrew's mouth.

It's not a kiss. There's no care, barely any movement of lips. Brendan's licking his way into Andrew's mouth because that's where Ste's come is, and Ste can see it, stood there in his daze, traces of white passing between them in the obscenity of the kiss, Andrew's eyes opened wide and Brendan's squeezed shut and Ste can't believe he's seeing this, can't believe he's watching Brendan suck his come out of the mouth of some random guy, just to get a taste of him.

Brendan finally releases Andrew, who stumbles back with a splutter.

"I dunno what this is—"

"It's none of your business," Brendan snarls, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. "Get out of here."

Andrew doesn't need telling twice. He looks between them as if he thinks they're both insane before coughing out a laugh of disbelief and hurrying off, leaving Ste alone with Brendan.

The ringing silence between them is deafening, and it takes Ste a few moments to realise he's still hanging out of his trousers. He swears softly to himself, still somewhat short of breath, and rushes to make himself decent while eying Brendan with something like venom.

"Suppose you think you're clever."

Brendan gazes at him with complete exposure and with such vulnerability that it makes Ste's heart leap into his throat. "I love you, Steven," he says, simply, honestly. "More than you'll ever understand. I'm not giving up until you tell me you feel nothing for me."

He spits out the only thing he can think of. "Mitzeee told me you let everyone else visit you."

Brendan nods. "Maybe I've made some mistakes—"

"I'm leaving," he snarls, pushing away from the wall and marching off.

"I'm not giving up, Steven," Brendan says, following him. "Not until you say it."

Ste whirls around, seeing nothing but red, and when he speaks, shouts, his voice echoes through the alley. "I don't feel anything for you. Okay?" His breath's coming too quickly, too short, making his chest hurt, but he pushes on anyway. "There, now you can leave me alone—"

Brendan surges forward and kisses him, a powerful, electric, whirlwind of a kiss that knocks every thought and breath out of Ste and leaves him standing there, taking it, a heady rise of white-hot emotion rushing up in his gut and chest.

Brendan's got his hands on each side of Ste's face, fingers digging in with intensity, and he's kissing him like this is his last kiss, like he wants to put everything he has into this kiss, like he wants to pull Ste open and dig his way inside and never leave, never let Ste ago.

He breaks from the kiss with a gasp but doesn't release his grip. "Now say it again," he hisses, his eyes on fire with bright emotion. "Say it again, Steven."

It's on the tip of his tongue, mouth open to spit it out, his chest heaving. Instead Ste kisses him, the most brutal kiss he's ever given before. Tears at Brendan's mouth, desperate urgency making the kiss violent, almost painful, plundering Brendan's mouth, taking everything he's missed these past five years, everything that's shredded his heart into so many pieces.

It's sensory memory—every touch, feeling, all of it associated with a past time, a better time, when a kiss like this would lead to pleasure, when Brendan would pull him apart with reverence and press him back together with love. When it was just him and Brendan, and the passion they had for each other.

It's all filling his senses, confusing him, making him _need_—and he's not strong enough to fight it now, doesn't know how to, tears his mouth from Brendan's enough to demand, "Fuck me," and then Brendan's face, so lit up with agonising hope, crumpling in indecision.

"No," he growls, tugging Ste closer anyway, dragging hands into his hair, "not here."

Ste's not having it; fists his hands in Brendan's shirt and shakes him with it, careless in his desperation. "I said fuck me."

"Steven—"

"What, you scared?" He shoves Brendan away suddenly, his legs shaking, all his bones vibrating with tension and all-consuming lust. "Prison made you weak? The Brendan I knew used to fuck me anywhere and I _loved_ it."

Brendan looks as though he's tasting acid. "I'm not having our first time in five years—"

"You're a joke, Brendan," Ste spits, laughing viciously, aiming to hurt, to _push_. "Holding on to some pathetic idea of romance—"

It's enough. Brendan snaps, surges forward again, gets a grip of Ste and yanks him. "Fine," he snarls into his face. "_Fine._ If it's what you want, I'll fucking give it to you."

"Yeah—"

It's the angriest form of kissing, almost a fight, tearing chunks out of each other, and then Brendan creating enough space to shove two fingers in Ste's mouth, rough and violent, pressing down on his tongue, his eyes burning with wicked, overpowering desire. Then Brendan's kissing him again, eating at his mouth, shoving his hand down the back of Ste's trousers and going straight for him hole.

Ste whimpers into Brendan's mouth as the first finger breaches him, goes up on tiptoes as Brendan shoves in, hard, lacking in finesse but so quick and thorough that it's making Ste shake, his body flooding through with pleasure as Brendan works into him and then stuffs in a second finger and Ste cries out into Brendan's mouth, shoves back on the fingers, clawing at Brendan's shoulders and chest and back as Brendan's tongue sweeps in deep and steals his breath—

And then suddenly it stops, Brendan's fingers cease moving, the kiss breaks and Brendan leans his forehead against Ste's and his eyes are squeezed shut and—

"I can't. I'm sorry."

No, no, Ste's not having it; Brendan's going to fuck him now. Brendan's going to fucking _take_ him and give him what he's deprived him of all this time. Brendan's going to make him whole again; he's going to fill that gaping void Ste can't smother, can't escape from.

Brendan _has_ to.

"No, Brendan—" He pulls on Brendan, tries to drag him into another kiss, tries to get him moving again. "Please. Please. I want it. I want _you_."

Brendan shakes his head, his breath puffing against Ste's lips. "Come on, not like this," he says, pain in his tone, removing his fingers from Ste's body and making him choke on desperation. "We've never been like this."

"_Please_, Brendan." He's sobbing the words, clinging to Brendan, clawing at him, and somewhere in his fog of desperation and agony, he feels his eyes wet, his jaw trembling. "I need to feel you. I've waited so long—"

"Shh, come here, come here." Brendan gathers him in his arms, pulls him close and holds him tight, murmurs into his ear. "Come back to the hotel. Let me do this properly." He squeezes tighter as Ste lets out another choked sob, presses a hand into Ste's hair to pull his face into the comforting warmth of his neck. "Please. I want to give you everything, Steven."

"I can't—" He struggles to pull away a few inches, get some breathing space. He's so hard it hurts; so much sexual frustration and years of suffocating loss filling him and making him _need._ He really fucking needs.

"Just give me one night," Brendan says, cupping his face, bending his knees to look Ste in the eye. "And then I'll leave or—or whatever you want. I promise. I just—I just need you, Steven. Even if it's for the last time."

The walls Ste's built around himself for protection begin to crumble.


	5. Chapter 5

"You want a beer or something?"

It's awkward. It's all too awkward. Steven's stood in Brendan's hotel room looking as though he'd rather be anywhere else, his eyes flicking to the bed and to the door and this isn't what Brendan had in mind for them, for their first time—only time, perhaps—together again.

Steven shakes his head.

"Water, if you've got it," he says, and Brendan can hear the dry swallow clicking in his throat. "And a shower." At Brendan's look of confusion, Steven adds, with visible embarrassment, "I've just had a blowjob off some random guy."

It makes Brendan's stomach lurch, the memory of it, finding Steven like that in the alley. He'd known immediately that it was for his benefit, that Steven was making a point, but it didn't make it any easier. Seeing Steven with another guy, no matter the circumstances, is never going to be something Brendan can cope with. The only thing he'd been able to do was wade in and steal Steven's attention.

He can still taste Steven's come on his tongue, come he had licked out of another man's mouth. It's twisted, but he hadn't been able to help himself. The bone-deep desire to taste Steven again, whatever the method. That same obsession still running through his veins.

He opens the mini fridge and retrieves a bottle of water, holds it out for Steven.

"Bathroom's there. Towels on the shelf."

"Thanks." Steven takes the water into the bathroom, closes the door behind himself, leaving Brendan alone and unsure.

Their first time after all these years is supposed to be special. But this feels dark, messy. This feels like Steven's operating on hateful desperation.

Brendan's not going to be able to go through with it, not if it's like this.

But he's got Steven here now, the two of them alone, and that's something. It's a start, and maybe he can build on it—maybe there's some hope, if he plays this right. The possibility that Steven might thaw a little, show a little of his true feelings—Brendan doesn't know what those feelings are, but anything would be better than this cold detachment. He's seen glimmers of something else, heat and passion in their argument, a warm glint in his eye as they talked. He knows there's something there. That his efforts here aren't complete futile.

Steven comes out of the bathroom as Brendan's perusing the room service menu. He's wearing a towel slung low on his hips and Brendan tries not to look, tries to stay composed long enough for Steven to realise there's more to his desires than just sex, the physical act of sating lust.

"If you're hungry I could order some room—what are you doing?"

Steven's approached him—marched straight across the room with determination etched all over his face. And he's gone directly for Brendan's belt.

Brendan jerks his hips back out of reach, heartbeat kicking up a gear.

"This isn't a date, Brendan," Steven mumbles, distracted, looking as though he's barely aware of his own words. He steps forward again, starts tugging on Brendan's shirt buttons. "We're here to fuck, and I wanna fuck."

Brendan's cock hardens despite his concern for Steven's behaviour. The sight of Steven driven by lust, manically trying to strip Brendan of his clothes, makes heat pool in his gut.

He wants this boy so badly he aches with it. But he wants to be desired in return, not seen as simply a means to an end.

"Steven, wait." He closes his hands around Steven's fingers working his shirt open, tries to get his attention.

"No." Steven wrenches his hands out of Brendan's grip, fire sparking in his eyes. "Get it out of your head—any ideas you've got about _making_ _love_ or whatever. This is sex." He goes back to Brendan's belt, yanks it open. His hands are shaking, cheeks tinting red. "I can't afford to let—to let _emotion_—"

"Okay. Okay. Just—slow down a second."

"You don't want me anymore?" Steven steps back, a smirk spreading across his face. With slow, calculated movements, he unhooks his towel from around his hips and lets it drop to the floor.

Brendan's breath catches in his chest, all thoughts fleeing his mind as heat burns through his groin, forcing his cock to full hardness, his heart to pound against his ribs.

Steven is beautiful, still so beautiful, hard and flushed and his eyes dark with desire. Then his hand skims down his own body, curls around his dick.

"I can always take care of myself if you've changed your mind…"

It's a tactic, a ploy to make Brendan bend to his will, and Brendan willingly plays into his hands. Steven wants to fuck. And Brendan, despite any pointless need to make this _special_, is going to fuck him.

He's only human, and Steven's offering himself up on a plate, and Brendan's wanted to get his hands and mouth on that body for too long. If Steven needs to leave all emotion out of it in exchange for pleasure…

This might be Brendan's only shot and it's _something_. And something is better than nothing at all.

Steven gets it—sees the moment Brendan breaks and they meet in the middle, mouths wide and tongues searching and Brendan digging fingers into bare skin as Steven groans into his mouth, the sound of pure relief.

It's a messy kiss, no finesse or technique, two people claiming each other in a moment of fiery passion and _this_ is not just something, this is more than detached lust, this is not how Steven would kiss a random nobody in the pursuit of sex. Brendan knows him, knows every inch of him, and he knows that Steven means this kiss; that as he's battling Brendan's tongue and releasing small, high-pitched whimpers from his throat and clawing at Brendan's clothes to get to his skin—Brendan knows this is a kiss of a man finally getting something he's wanted and needed for so long that he's unravelling with it now, unable to contain it.

Brendan's naked before he even thinks of moving things forward—Steven dragging his shirt off his shoulders and yanking his trousers open and Brendan breaks from the kiss long enough to push trousers and underwear and socks and shoes off and away, until he's stood there with nothing separating him from this boy but air and hesitance. And Steven's looking at him, his chest hitching with his constricted breaths, flush crawling up his throat, his gaze sweeping from Brendan's eyes to his chest to his waist to his hard cock, leaking at the tip.

Brendan fists his hands and lets Steven look at him and waits for Steven to come to him, and he does—takes a rushed step forward and places his hands on Brendan's sides and drags them up, over his abs and fingers pushing through his chest hair and cupping his jaw and drawing Brendan in for a kiss as his lust-blown eyes flutter shut and Brendan can't breathe, so overwhelmed with desire for this boy, his feelings for him flooding his body and making his heart stutter as Steven licks into his mouth and steps closer and they collide, both of them gasping, chest and hips meeting in a press of heated skin and their cocks sliding together as Steven gets on his tiptoes and grinds against him, moan slipping from his throat and into Brendan's mouth.

Brendan swallows the moan and turns them until Steven's pushed back against the wall, digs bruises under Steven's thigh as he lifts it around his hip and presses in hard, thrusts his dick alongside Steven's, feels the soft weight of Steven's balls against his own and the leak of precome spilling over them both and Steven pulling on him, arms clinging around his shoulders and tugging him in as Brendan thrusts again and again, pleasure washing over him and Steven keening as the kiss breaks, Brendan going for his neck and devouring the skin there over the rapid flutter of his pulse point. His hips work relentlessly, Steven rocking up to meet each of his thrusts, both of them panting and moaning and Brendan's so worked up he can't even _think_ to do this properly, find a condom and push into this body—his orgasm's already licking at him, years of pent-up desire for this boy imploding within him, and Steven's nails are digging into his back and he's fucking up into Brendan's thrusts and when Brendan catches skin between his teeth Steven cries out and slaps his head back against the wall and comes violently against him, body convulsing and shuddering and Brendan holds him close through it, forces down his own need to come and basks in the ecstasy spilling from Steven, of what _he's_ done to him.

When it's over, when Steven's dick stops twitching and his moans ease away and he's nothing but a gasping mess of harsh breathing and clammy skin, he takes Brendan's face in his hands and forces them both to look at each other, drags his fingers back through Brendan's hair and then down the side of his neck, back to his face—touching him, constantly, like he can't let go.

"Did you miss it?" Steven's voice is barely more than a whisper, licking his lips as soon as the words leave them and shifting his hips, making Brendan swallow a groan, his own cock still painfully hard.

"Missed everything," Brendan murmurs, holding Steven close, his arms looped possessively around his waist, forcing him to arch away from the wall a little. "Nothing will ever come close."

Steven's searching his eyes and Brendan doesn't know what he's looking for. Whatever it is, he's willing to give it.

"Tell me again."

This he knows. Can feel it between them, what Steven needs to hear. Brendan finds it the easiest thing of all to say. "I love you."

Steven kisses him, and he takes him to bed, and he murmurs, "You're still hard," against Brendan's mouth as he skims his hand down and closes around him, stroking him languidly as Brendan crowds in over him and kisses him deep and tries not to overanalyse his luck here, can't believe this is happening, that Steven still hasn't disappeared.

They kiss for what feels like hours, don't even pause as Brendan fumbles blindly in the bedside drawer and then pushes lube-slicked fingers inside Steven, stretching him, getting him ready, burning all the way up from the inside as Steven spreads his legs wider in invitation and whimpers into his mouth and clutches Brendan closer, their sweat-damp skin sliding together as Steven rolls his hips onto Brendan's fingers, pulling them in deeper.

It takes Brendan longer than usual to put on a condom, his hands shaking and his breathing uneven and his heart pounding under the attention of Steven, of having Steven look at him and watch him with heavy-lidded, dark eyes full of want, full of need for _him_.

He shifts over Steven until he's settled between his thighs and when he presses into him for the first time in over five years, it feels like the most powerful kind of heaven settling over him and flooding him and he can't contain his moan as he presses his forehead to Steven's and looks him in the eye until he's pushed all the way in, balls snug against Steven's, his hole twitching and clenching around him, making him grit his teeth.

Then Steven whispers his name, just the pure, reverent sound of "_Brendan_" slipping from his lips, taking Brendan's hand and holding it interlocked with his own fingers beside his head and rolling his hips up to make Brendan move.

It's not fucking. It's not what Steven asked for. It's not Brendan pounding into him without care and forcing an orgasm out of him. It's more than that, and it's slower, and they look at each other, their hands held, Brendan gliding in deep on each thrust and both of them sweating and flushed, both of them moving together, hips meeting and chests heaving and broken kisses—the cling of lips and tongue, slick foreheads and then Brendan pressing against Steven's cheek, breathing into his ear, nonsense words like "_Missed you_" and "_So good for me, always so good_" and Steven whimpering and holding him close and pressing his face into Brendan's neck.

They come together, seconds apart, muted groans and clutching hands and Steven arching off the bed as Brendan pushes in as deep as he can go and holds there, lets the climactic, rhythmic clench-and-release of Steven's hole milk the orgasm from him, Steven falling apart all around him.

"I should go," Steven says a minute later after Brendan's eased from his body, discarded the condom and wiped them both down. His eyelids are already heavy and Brendan watches him trying to stifle a yawn, looking in no hurry to get out of this bed.

"Just sleep," Brendan murmurs, pulling the covers over them both. He lays beside Steven, careful not to touch him—doesn't want to push his luck, not when they've already come so far. "We'll deal with everything in the morning."

Steven's drifting off before Brendan's even finished his sentence.

::: :::

Ste's pulled out of sleep by sunlight spilling over his face and the sensual press of lips and tongue against the back of his shoulders, soft kisses across his skin, an arm around his waist and a hand caressing his tummy and chest.

He knows instantly that it's Brendan behind him, rousing him, almost worshipping him, and he doesn't freak out, not even when memories of last night filter into his brain, the memory of not just giving in but desperate for it, coming apart under Brendan's hands.

Those memories coupled with Brendan's actions now pull a breathy moan from him and he pushes back into the contact, eyes still half closed, arousal building within him, making him heat up from the inside.

The instant he does so, letting Brendan knows he's awake and he's not running away from this, Brendan tightens his arm around him and kisses his way up to his neck, the slippery-wet head of his cock nudging between Ste's buttocks.

"Can I…?"

Ste shivers under the weight of Brendan's rumbling voice, the feel of Brendan's cock ghosting against his hole, Brendan's reverent kisses across his skin.

"Yeah."

He reaches for a condom in the drawer in front of him and passes it back, pushes his knee farther up and readjusts his pillow under his head as the sounds of Brendan tearing open the condom wrapper fills the room. A few moments later, as Ste's breathing becomes laboured with the anticipation, Brendan settles back in beside him, holds his hip steady, and pushes in.

Their groans are synchronised, deep and heartfelt.

Pleasure travels up Ste's spine as Brendan begins a languid, unhurried rhythm of thrusts, hips rolling to push his cock deep and his arm coming back around Steven's waist to hold him close.

Ste breathes through the pleasure, quiet and slightly constricted, sweat breaking out on his skin and his muscles tingling as bliss fills him, sweeping over him like a hot blanket. He lifts an arm behind him to get hold of Brendan's head and pulls him in, twists his own face around for a wet, messy, uncoordinated kiss, lips falling slack against Brendan's as Brendan glides his hand low and takes Ste's dick, strokes it in time with his thrusts into Ste's body.

When Ste comes, it's with Brendan wrapped all around him from his shoulders to his feet, the feel of Brendan _everywhere_, every inch of him, smothering him with pleasure and affection and taking his breath away.

Brendan slumps over his back when it's over, his cock still tucked in Ste's hole and softening with satisfaction. Ste allows it for a minute or two, Brendan's weight on him, before his chest grows too tight with the pressure.

"Can't really breathe, you know."

"Sorry," Brendan mumbles, rolling off him, the feel of him lingering on Ste's skin.

"You weigh a ton now," Ste says, turning over onto his back, half groaning with the exertion of it all. He feels relaxed all the way through, like his bones and muscles have melted. There used to be a lot of mornings like this, the two of them in bed in the emerging sunlight, satiated after drawing pleasure from each other's bodies. "All these new muscles," he adds, waving his hand in Brendan's direction.

The man has certainly filled out. He was always well-built, a tower of strength and masculinity, but it's more now—muscles cut and defined in places they never were before.

Ste can't say the sight of it doesn't make him hot.

Brendan looks at him. "I always had these muscles."

"No you never. You were a right skinny thing when I first met you."

"You really wanna talk to me about skinny, Steven?" Brendan asks, raising an eyebrow.

"You liked me skinny." He's still skinny, but he has definition now, not so skin and bone.

"I did," Brendan concedes without hesitance.

"What about now?"

The corner of Brendan's mouth quirks in the approximation of a smile. "Think I've answered that question already."

"What if I put on loads of weight?" Ste pushes. "Would you still want me?" He has no idea what he's saying, _why_ he's saying it. He's operating on this feeling of lying beside Brendan, everything calm and quiet, almost dreamlike. Wanting to hold onto it for a while longer, before the real world crashes back in and he has to let his thoughts take over, let his head start ruling his actions again.

"You wanna find out?" Brendan asks. "We could start with a full English now."

It's an invitation to extend this, take last night's and this morning's connection and pull it into the new day. It sounds nice, but Ste has to be rational; he can't afford to jump back in with both feet without knowing—his head clear and free of the sensations Brendan evokes in him—that he's here for the right reasons. Neither of them deserves any less.

He sighs. "I have to go."

"You have to go now because you've got stuff to do," Brendan says slowly, turning onto his side and propping up on his elbow, "or because you need to get away from me?"

"Both," Ste says, and then winces at the look of pain that flashes in Brendan's eyes. "It's not like that. My head's all over the place, Brendan. I need some time to figure things out."

Brendan considers him, gaze locked on his. "What're you doing tonight?"

"I've got dinner at Manny's and then I have my meeting."

"Meeting?"

Ste hesitates. He could easily lie here, making something up, leave Brendan none the wiser. But there's no hope of them ever moving forward if Ste can't be honest now, and there's nothing he hated more in the past than lies.

"AA," he says, watching Brendan's face for a reaction. "Twice a week." He takes a breath, and then: "I'm an alcoholic."

There's a long, long pause, Brendan simply looking at him, his expression unreadable. Then all the breath whooshes out of him at once, devastation filling his eyes. "Jesus, Steven."

Ste shrugs, shoulders brushing against the mattress beneath him. He refuses to feel any embarrassment for what happened to him. "You want me back, you should know what you'd be getting."

Brendan shakes his head, looking as though the thought never crossed his mind—that he'd ever consider changing his mind just because Ste comes with extra baggage now. It makes something swell in Ste's chest.

"How—I mean, am I the reason—"

"Yeah." At Brendan's stricken look, Ste adds, "Well I'm not gonna lie, Brendan. I went completely off the rails when you left." He cuts his gaze away from Brendan, picks at a jagged fingernail. "Thought I was coping at first, for a few months—then I was just… I needed alcohol to get through the next day, then the next, and then one day I woke up in hospital on a dialysis machine."

Brendan doesn't say anything for a while, but when he does, his voice his heartbreakingly sad. "I don't deserve to have you back. I thought I did, finally—but I just keep ruining your life, don't I?"

Ste looks over at him again, gives a soft smile. "That's why I keep saying I can't risk it again."

"You know I'm going clean, don't you?" Brendan says, reaching out to hold Ste's shoulder, stroke the pad of his thumb across his skin. "No more—I'm done with all that shit. Police and prison and fucking psychos trying to take everyone away from me."

"Yeah? What's your plan, then?" Ste raises his eyebrows. "Do you even know how to live a normal life?"

"I don't know," Brendan mutters, shrugging. "Open some kind of business. Pay my taxes. Little house somewhere outside of town, big TV with the sports package."

"Sounds dead boring," Ste says, huffing a quiet laugh. He can't imagine Brendan ever living the quiet life. The man thrives on danger, living on the edge.

At least he did.

"Sounds like heaven," Brendan says. Then he smiles, ghosts his finger over Ste's jaw. "Especially if you'll be there to liven things up for me."

Ste looks at him, sees the warmth in his eyes, the desire to have everything he's talking about, and what he's alluding to without words. A simple life for the two of them; a comfortable partnership. A future. "I lied, you know," he says now, softly. "When I said I didn't feel anything anymore."

Brendan's eyes light up in the instant before he leans down for a gentle kiss. "I know."

They smile at each other, Brendan's fingers trailing over Ste's temple and hairline, and Ste's struggling to find a reason to get out of this bed and walk away.

But he knows he has to do it, that it's better for the both of them in the long run.

He sighs and pushes Brendan's hand away. "Right, well, I've gotta go." Then he rolls out of bed, pops into the bathroom quickly for his clothes. "Just…give me a few days," he adds, dressing hurriedly, blushing under the knowledge that he's stood here naked in the daylight, Brendan watching him. "Need to clear my head, figure things out."

"Steven."

Ste looks up at him.

"I want to give you the future you deserve," Brendan says, his tone holding the weight of sincerity. "That's my offer. Just…keep that in mind when you're figuring everything out."

Ste smiles, slips his t-shirt over his head, then leans across the bed to press a quick, chaste kiss to Brendan's mouth. "I'll see you later," he says, and then leaves the room before he can change his mind.

::: :::

Jamie lunges through the kitchen door as Ste's tiptoeing past, attempting to make it to his room without being caught.

"Where've you been all night, you filthy whore?"

He stops and sighs, turns to Jamie. "Brendan's."

"Brendan-who-nearly-killed-me Brendan?"

"What?" says Ste, tone raising an octave. This is news to him.

Jamie nods. "Yesterday at the barbeque. Wanted your address and went all psycho on me."

"Did he really though," Ste asks, tilting his head to the side, "or are you just being dramatic again?" For a straight man, no one does drama queen like Jamie.

"There was growling," Jamie says. "And definitely some shirt grabbage." He demonstrates by pulling on the front of his t-shirt.

Ste stares at him. "Yeah, he does that."

"Good," says Jamie, sounding like it's anything but. "Excellent."

"Oh relax." Ste waves a hand. "He wouldn't hurt you."

"How do you know? Need I remind you he's just got out of _prison_."

"He's changed," Ste murmurs after a moment of thought. He smiles a little to himself, gaze drifting away from Jamie. "Can see it in his—"

"Vomit."

"Shut up." Ste tutts, gives him a bit of a shove. "You don't understand."

"No, clearly," Jamie drawls, rolling his eyes. "So did you bang him?"

"Bang him? Seriously?"

"Whatever. Did you make luurve?"

Ste shifts his feet, rubs the back of his neck, looks anywhere but at Jamie. "We had sex, yes."

Jamie, in an attempt to look casual, cocks his hip and crosses his arms, gives a little sniff. "How was it?"

"Good," Ste says awkwardly.

"Good?"

He huffs out a breath of exasperation. "Amazing," he says, almost snapping. Then he pauses before adding, his tone pensive, "It always is." Sex has never been their problem.

Jamie's giving him a long look of consideration. "So what now then?"

"I dunno," Ste says, shrugging. "He wants us to be together."

"And you don't?"

"I need to think. But later. I'm gonna get a shower then go over to see the kids. You coming?"

"Okay," Jamie says. "I'll get the loofah."

Ste laughs. "To Amy's, you idiot."

Jamie's face falls comically as he walks away. "You break my heart, Ste."

::: :::

Brendan's only just got dressed when he's forced to open the door to Mitzeee's insistent knocking.

"Afternoon," she says with a sly grin before breezing past him. She makes a very obvious show of inspecting the room, the bedcovers. "You get laid then?"

"Hi, Anne." Brendan sits on the edge of the bed to put his shoes on. "Nice to see you too. I'm fine, thanks."

"Shut your face. Did you?"

He looks up at her, and something on his face must give him away because she gasps and damn near starts vibrating with delight.

"You did! Oh my god!" She claps her hands together, then sits beside him on the bed. "Was it everything you've been dreaming about for the past five years?"

"I'm not answering that."

It was more than everything he'd been dreaming about, but she doesn't need to know the details. He made Steven come three times in the last twelve hours and that's roughly three times more than he was expecting, considering how cold Steven had been at the beginning of the night.

He can still barely believe that last night and this morning happened; he's refusing to overthink it—or think of it at all, if he can help it—for fear of getting too hung up on the idea of what they might have now, and then facing possible rejection.

"Where is he then?"

Brendan stands and retrieves his jacket from the back of the chair. "He had to go."

"But things are looking good?"

"I don't know," he admits on a small sigh. "He's taking time to think."

"Well, that's better than nothing." She gets to her feet, crowds behind him as he checks his appearance in the mirror. "I've got the perfect way for you to take your mind off it."

He raises an eyebrow at her while she smooths hands over his shoulders, removing any creases from the material. "Does it involve me taking you shopping?"

"It almost definitely a hundred percent involves you taking me shopping."

"You're such a gold digger."

"Honey, that ship sailed the day you first stuck your dick in another bloke." She puts her hands on either side of his cheeks and gives them a little squeeze, drops her voice to a playful tone. "Now I spend your money because I just love you so much."

"Oh, is that how it works?" he asks, batting her hands away and straightening his sleeves.

"Yes, it's how I show my affection. Come on, it's my last day here. Let's get a move on."

Then she's ushering him out the door before he even has time to think of an objection.

::: :::

"Hiya, only us," Ste calls, letting himself and Jamie into Amy's.

He finds her in the kitchen, midway through ironing the world's largest pile of clothes.

"Hey," she says, sounding a little tired but smiling at them all the same.

"Leftover barbeque stuff?" says Jamie.

"Fridge."

"Awesome."

She edges around Jamie buried in the fridge and opens a drawer, retrieves an envelope from it.

"This came for you," she says, handing it to Ste. "Have you not told everyone your new address yet?"

"Haven't got round to it." He opens the envelope and reads the piece of card inside, smiling at the scribbled kisses and smiley face at the bottom. "It's from Sinead."

"What does she say?"

"Invitation to Katie's birthday on Wednesday."

Amy raises an eyebrow. "Bit short notice isn't it?"

"You know what she's like," Ste says, rolling his eyes affectionately and stuffing the card back into the envelope.

"You gonna go?"

"'Course I'm going. She's me goddaughter, in't she."

Amy frowns, puts the iron upright and looks at him with obvious concern. "But Hollyoaks though…"

"It's just one day, Amy. I can cope. Get to see Tony as well while I'm there." The idea fills him warmth. It's been a while since he's seen any of them, and he owes Tony a visit, owes him so much—his life, for a start.

"All right, well." Amy doesn't sound too sure, but she manages to paint on a smile. "Try to enjoy yourself."

"Where're the kids? I've got a few hours. Thought I might take them cinema or something."

"Lucas is in the garden. Leah's locked in her room."

"All right." He nods at Jamie, who's busy gnawing his way around a chicken leg and looking as though he's not been listening to a word anyone's said. "Back in a sec."

"Ste—" Amy follows him, collars him in the hallway. "Wait. Is everything okay? After yesterday."

He shakes his head. "Everything's fine," he says, a confused note to his tone, as if he has no idea what she's implying. But of course he does. He just doesn't want to talk about any of it.

"He wanted your address but we didn't give it to him," she says, dropping her voice. "Thought that should be your decision."

He huffs a mirthless laugh. "Yeah, well he found me anyway."

"How?"

"He's Brendan."

It's pretty much the only explanation that's ever needed whenever Brendan's acting on the sly.

"Well…what happened?"

He sighs, drags a hand through his hair—no doubt messing it up, but he doesn't care. He's starting to get a little sick of being forced to confront this whole Brendan thing every five bloody minutes. How is he supposed to get his head straight if he's never given the opportunity to examine his own thoughts and feelings?

"I just want to go five minutes without talking about Brendan, all right? Can I just see me kids please?"

She blinks at him. "Fine."

"Thank you," he says with some exasperation.

He doesn't mean to come across as a bratty toddler as he storms off, but he suspects he looks like one anyway.

They go to the cinema, Ste and the kids and Jamie, then get some ice cream. It's becoming increasingly difficult to find something for them all to enjoy—Leah's fast approaching teenagerdom while Lucas is still all about video games and kickabouts in the park—but they both seem to enjoy themselves and Ste drops them off happy and tired and manages to dodge Amy's attempts at continued questioning.

He heads to Manny's after, stomach growling for Linda's food, and she stuffs him full of cottage pie while asking him about what his kids have been up to lately, how Lucas got on in his last football match. Manny starts to tell a joke about one of his favourite football players, animated in his delivery, before he suddenly stops and presses his fingers to his temple, making Ste frown with concern.

"You still got that headache?"

"Ah, it's nothing," Manny says, putting on a brave smile. "Don't worry yourself."

Ste tutts. "I keep trying to make him go to the doctor, Linda, but he's having none of it."

"Don't I know it," she says, rolling her eyes. But there's a crease between her brows as she looks at her husband. "Stubborn old idiot he is. It'll be the death of him, these headaches, I keep telling him!"

"Drama queens, the pair of you," Manny grumbles.

Ste and Manny go into the spare room after, where Manny has a dartboard secured to the wall. He's been teaching Ste how to play for a few months now and Ste's getting better; often, he even manages to hit the board.

When Manny excuses himself to the bathroom, Ste wanders into the kitchen and picks up a tea towel, joins Linda at the sink, where she's quietly washing dishes and humming to herself.

"I'll help," he says, picking up a wet glass to dry.

She smiles at him. "Thank you."

They work in silence for a little while, Ste lost in his own thoughts; he's finding the process of drying dishes quite relaxing, helping him shift things around in his head until they start making a little more sense.

"How've you been lately?" Linda asks him eventually. "You keeping strong?"

"Still dry, yeah."

She flashes him a grin. "Manny says you're quite the example at the meetings."

"Manny's not supposed to talk to you about the meetings," he says, his tone mock-stern.

"I know, he's a bad man. But the secret of a good marriage is to _not_ have secrets. And you know I want the best for you, love."

He gives her a smile of appreciation, fondness filling his chest. He doesn't know when it started, really—the moment he started thinking of Manny and Linda as friends first, and then something like family. He supposes it has something to do with his lack of parents, lack of any real family, and having Linda and Manny be so welcoming and warm with him.

He couldn't imagine not having either of them in his life now.

"How is he, really?" he asks, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "I'm worried about him."

She sighs. "I'm sure he's fine," she says, but the troubled look in her eyes concerns him. "Tough as old boots, that man. You've been so good for him," she adds, giving his arm a pat.

"Me?"

"Ever since he took you under his wing—the meetings, work, everything. Given him a new lease of life."

"Don't think that has much to do with me." He's squirming a little under the weight of her words, the idea that he might have had as much of an impact on their lives as they've had on his. Not many people have ever thought of him with such high regard, and he doesn't really know how to take it.

She looks as though she knows exactly what's going on in his head, and when she speaks, it's with complete sincerity. "Has everything to do with you, Ste, love."

Manny comes into the kitchen then, saving Ste from having to find the right words in response to Linda's statement.

He's holding a battered old box, and he directs a grin at Ste, looking like an excitable, overgrown child. "Hey, found my old draughts board. What d'you reckon?"

Ste laughs, hooks his soggy tea towel on the handle of a cupboard. "Proper good at draughts, me."

"We'll see about that. C'mon, we'll go a couple rounds before we have to go to the meeting. Still got some of that trifle you made in the week…"

::: :::

"…and the bank manager needs you to be there so you'll have to come up."

"All right," Brendan says to Jim on the phone, "I'll leave in the morning. I'm only staying the day though. I've got things going on down here."

Jim snorts, the sound ringing unpleasantly in Brendan's ear. "By things you mean boy drama."

"Stick to what I'm paying you for, yeah?" He hangs up on Jim's laugh, drops his phone beside him on the bed with a huff of irritation.

Mitzeee looks over from where she's packing her suitcase. "He after gossip again?"

"Worse than a teenage girl sometimes."

The door knocks, and Brendan's not surprised to find Amy on the other side of it. He smiles. It's amazing really, how easy he finds smiling at Amy now; she used to make his jaw ache with how much he grit his teeth in her presence.

"Hey."

"Hi. I just came to see how things are going. Can't get much out of Ste, so—oh," she says, glancing behind Brendan towards Mitzeee, "you're leaving?"

"Need to get home to my boy," says Mitzeee.

Amy nods. "I'll leave you to it," she says, then looks back up at Brendan. "Maybe we can have tea tomorrow?"

"Ah, I can't. I'm heading up to Hollyoaks tomorrow."

"Oh!" Her eyes widen, brows venturing up to her hairline. "Uh…okay. Does Ste know?"

"I haven't mentioned it," he says, a bit awkwardly. It's not that he doesn't want to speak to Steven—he's just unsure on where he stands now, if he has the right to call him.

"I just…is it really what you want to be—for god's sake," she says, as her phone beeps in her pocket. She pulls it out and glances at the screen. "Okay, I have to go. But talk to him before you leave, yeah? Promise me."

Mitzeee lets out a baffled laugh once Amy's hurried off and Brendan's shut the door. "Anyone would think you're leaving forever."

Brendan forces a smile back, not willing to admit what the sight of her packed suitcases makes him feel. He likes having her around, always has done—she's one of the few people who's ever dared stand up to him; even in the very early days, when he would've taken any risks to keep his sexuality an iron-clad secret, she steamrolled right through his attempts at menace and cast a spell around him. She's had him under her thumb since day one and his life would never be the same without her.

But she has to leave now; he only hopes the next time he sees her will be due to happier circumstances.

"You ready?" he says heavily.

She gives him a bit of a wobbly smile. "Think so."

"C'mon, I'll drive you to the station."

::: :::

Ste's not making much headway on getting his head straight. Every time he thinks he's getting close to figuring everything out, his conscious interrupts and reminds him of what happened to him the last time he allowed Brendan to claim his heart, what he put his family through, his kids…

But he can't deny that Brendan's consuming his every waking thought, and he's not stupid enough to not realise what that means.

"Ste!"

He startles and looks up from where he's been cleaning the stove on autopilot; by the looks of things, he's been scrubbing the same spot for at least the past fifteen minutes. "What?"

"I said your name half a dozen times," Manny tells him. "You away with the fairies?" He snorts at his own wit. "So to speak."

"Sorry, I just—"

He sighs, drops his sponge in the sink. He's tired of being trapped in his own head, of trying to work all this out in the muddled haze of his thoughts. He needs to _talk_ about it, work it through out loud, an attempt to put all the factors of this decision in an order that makes sense.

Only he has no one to talk to about it. Amy's too invested in the whole situation; she has her own strong opinions, her own ideas on what he should do, and he worries that talking to her will achieve nothing but bending to her persuasion. He needs to be sure for _himself,_ and not because Amy's talked him into it—regardless of her good intentions.

He could talk to Jamie, but Jamie's still too hung up on the words "prison" and "murder" to be objective enough. Without meaning to, Ste's sure, Jamie will only go in the exact opposite direction of Amy—talking Ste _out_ of it.

That only leaves the people he knows in Hollyoaks, and picking up the phone to speak to Sinead or Tony doesn't sound too appealing. He has no option but to keep all this locked in his own head. Unless…

He looks up at Manny, who's peering at him from the doorway, waiting for him to finish the rest of his sentence.

He's close to Manny, and Manny's always wanted what's best for him. But Ste's always been slightly guarded with what he tells Manny, too focused on building a relationship with the man and performing well for him as an employee—hasn't wanted Manny to judge him for his decisions in the past, and therefore kept a lot of his history to himself.

It makes Manny objective, with no preconceived judgements. Ste has no idea why he didn't think of it before.

"Can I talk to you a minute?"

"Yeah, 'course. You wanna sit?" When Ste nods, Manny beckons him out of the kitchen. "Come on then."

The restaurant closed a little while ago; many of the tables are still littered with dishes and leftover food, but both of them ignore it all in favour of taking a seat and having this conversation, a conversation Ste desperately needs.

Manny doesn't push or prompt him to start talking. He sits and he waits and his expression says nothing. Eventually, Ste finds the words to begin.

"You know that guy. The one who come here looking for me. Brendan."

"Yeah."

"Back when we were together—even when we weren't together—I really loved him." He flushes a little as he says it, but ploughs on regardless of the mild embarrassment. "Like, _really_ loved him. More than I'd ever loved anything in the world. Aside from me kids, obviously."

Manny smiles. "Yeah, I got that impression."

"Losing him is what made me turn to drink. It—it pretty much destroyed me. Didn't think I'd ever get over it."

"Did you?"

"I thought I'd buried it all. All those feelings I had for him. Then he—he just turned up here out of the blue, no warning. And all those feelings, all that love, it just came flooding back. I haven't been able to think straight since."

"I suppose he's here to get you back?" He waits for Ste's nod, then asks, his tone gentle, "What's stopping you?"

It's the crux of the matter, and the one thing that's stopping Ste from running straight into Brendan's arms. "He's not always been good for me. I mean, look how I ended up."

"You mean the alcohol?"

"Yeah."

"You're dealing with that now." Manny pats his forearm, gives it a bracing shake. "Doing so good, too."

"I know," Ste says, a coy smile curling his lips. "I just—what happens next time he leaves?" Every time he thinks about it, his chest clenches with a piercing pain that makes his heart race.

"Who says he's leaving again?"

"You don't know him," Ste says, snorting. "Walking magnet for trouble."

"Who you love, more than anything in the world. Aside from your kids, obviously." Manny gives a wry little smirk. "Well way I see it, you've got two choices. You jump back in with both feet with the risk it might end badly again. Or you settle for second best, whoever that might be in the future, never knowing if you and this great love of yours could've worked out."

Ste breathes out a long breath, Manny's words filling him with a nervous sort of anticipation. "I'm scared."

"I know," Manny says softly.

"If I let myself feel all that again, properly I mean, then I don't know if I'd survive him leaving me again. And I don't…I don't know if he feels the same." It's not easy voicing this particular fear, but the doubt still plagues him—even now, after the night they spent together. After Brendan told him more than once that he loves him.

But Brendan's told him he loves him before. And still they ended up here, in this mess.

"What makes you think that?"

"These past five years, he…he completely cut me out. Not a word from him."

"He's here now."

He sighs with frustration, rubs a hand over his forehead. "I just can't help thinking that maybe he's lonely, and I'm the convenient option. The familiar option. He knows what he's getting with me and maybe that…that's easier for him, rather than trying to settle down with someone new."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I don't _want_ to, but…"

"Can I be cheesy for a second?"

"If you want," Ste says, smiling cautiously.

"Follow your heart, kid," Manny says, his tone matter-of-fact. "You've only got one life. Don't waste it worrying about tomorrow when you can have everything you want today. You might drop dead in the morning."

Ste laughs. "Thanks."

"S'why I'm here," Manny says, shrugging and smiling all at once.

"No, but thank you. I don't know if I've shown my appreciation for everything you've done for me. You're like—"

"If you're about to say I'm like a dad to you, so help me god I will beat you with a spatula. I'm trying to hang on to a bit of youth here."

Ste snorts out another laugh. "Sorry."

"Shame we never got to have kids of our own. Wouldn't mind one of you to boss around."

"You do that anyway."

"Well there you have it then."

The smile Manny gives him now is full of a different kind of warmth, one that makes Ste want to cling on to him, one that says more than Ste ever could. He feels emotion welling up in his throat and he swallows it down, blushing in mild embarrassment.

"Are we gonna hug?" Manny says. "I feel like we should hug."

Ste presses forward and hugs him, can't seem to help the impulse. Manny grunts on impact and then pats his back, his arms tightening after a moment, as though overcome with the urge.

It's the ringing of Ste's phone that separates them.

"Oh, sorry—" He pulls away from the hug, retrieves his phone and answers it. "Amy."

"Hey. Did you speak to Brendan?"

"Not since yesterday. Why?"

"I thought he would've called you." She sounds troubled, and Ste gets to his feet, chest constricting.

"No. Everything okay?"

"He's leaving in the morning."

The ground drops out from beneath Ste's feet and he staggers to the side, has to grab the table for balance. Manny's looking up at him with concern. "What?"

"Back to Hollyoaks I think. Told me earlier."

"What—he can't! He's supposed to be giving me _time_, for god's sake."

"Maybe he is," Amy says, a hint of sadness in her tone. "Loads of time."

"I have to go. Call you later." He snaps the phone shut, mind already running a mile a minute.

Brendan _can't_ leave.

"Ste—"

"Manny, I need to—"

"Go," Manny says, shooing him away, "go on, I'll see you Thursday."

Ste's breathless by the time he reaches Brendan's hotel room door, his body flooded with anger and panic and desperation, his knock on the door erratic and too forceful and he can't seem to get control of his emotions, his whole body shaking with it.

When Brendan answers, he looks bowled over to find Ste there. Ste can see it in his expression, even under the ton of shaving cream covering his face.

"Steven."

"Amy said you're leaving." His words come out strained.

Brendan blinks at him. "What?"

"She said you're leaving in the morning."

"Yeah, got a meeting with my bank manager in—are you okay?"

"What the hell, Brendan," Ste explodes, throwing his hands up. "Why couldn't you just wait, give me a few days to get my head around things—"

"Woah, hey." Brendan looks around the corridor before beckoning Ste in, closes the door behind him. "What're you talking about?"

Ste can't see any signs that Brendan's packed to leave, but it doesn't alleviate his anger any.

"You sleep with me and then you disappear and you weren't even gonna tell me you were leaving?"

Brendan shifts his stance, crosses his arms over his chest. When he speaks, his tone is flat. "Weren't so long ago you wanted me to leave."

"Yeah, and then we slept together, and my head's all full of this—full of this _mess_, and I can't—why couldn't you have just waited a few days? Am I not even worth _that_?"

There's a ringing silence following Ste's words, both of them staring at each. Brendan's eyes seem full of everything and nothing, and Ste can't read any of it.

"Steven," Brendan eventually says. "I'm going for one day."

The band around Ste's chest loosens an inch. "What?"

"I have a meeting at the bank in Chester tomorrow with Jim. I'll be back in the evening."

"Oh." Embarrassment washes over him—embarrassed that he's made such a show out of nothing; embarrassed that he's reacted in a way that does nothing to hide his true feelings.

Brendan appears thrown by the whole thing. "I was gonna send you a text. I didn't wanna call—the whole space thing."

"Right," Ste says, nodding, wishing his face would cool down.

"Didn't mean to scare you." But there's a quirk to Brendan's lips, his eyes twinkling now.

"Shut up," Ste mumbles, a smile forcing itself onto his face, "you're dead pleased about it."

"A little bit," Brendan says, holding his thumb and forefinger up to measure a couple of inches. "Means you feel something, at least."

They smile at each other across the space between them, and Ste doesn't even care if he's being too obvious. His relief is too powerful.

"You know you've got shaving cream all over your face."

Brendan reaches up to touch his face. "Let me go clean up," he says, heading towards the bathroom. He stops in the doorway, raises his eyebrows at Ste. "You'll stay here?"

Ste nods, and Brendan spends another moment searching his eyes before he's apparently satisfied enough to leave Ste alone.

Ste can't stand here and allow himself to think about how he's just reacted; he needs a distraction, and he finds it in snooping through Brendan's stuff. They used to live together—surely that gives him the right to be nosey.

He finds a ratty old bag tucked under the desk and he pulls it out, sits it on the edge of the bed. There's not much inside it—a few items of clothing, a couple of books. He retrieves a small folder from inside it and discovers that it holds photos of Brendan's family—his sister, his ex-wife and children, Mitzeee, even one of Leah and Lucas. None of him though. With a confused sort of tugging on his heart, he puts the folder back and grabs one of the old books lying at the bottom of the bag.

It's Brendan's Bible, and Ste flicks through it, his breath catching in his throat when he reaches the middle and finds his picture, tucked there between the pages. He can't remember when the picture was taken, but he's in his old flat, sitting on the sofa, smiling up at the camera Brendan must be holding. There's a shaft of sunlight cutting across his face, making his eyes light up, and the grin he's wearing is big and bright.

"That's all my stuff from prison."

Brendan's voice startles him and he turns, finds Brendan stood in the room, his face clear of shaving foam now, his eyes warm on Ste.

"This is a picture of me."

Brendan swallows. "Yeah."

"All your other pictures are in that folder but you've put me in your Bible."

"Yeah."

Ste draws in a breath. "Why?"

"I slept with my Bible every night," Brendan says, his voice soft. "Next to my pillow. Made me feel…protected. Sane. Like I wasn't so alone."

"And you kept my picture inside it."

"Every night," Brendan says with gentle conviction, nodding.

Ste sighs, carefully places the Bible and his picture back inside Brendan's prison bag. He's so full of emotion that he can barely get his words through his throat. "Why didn't you ever let me visit you, Brendan?"

Brendan steps forward, lifts his hands to cup Ste's face, bringing them eye to eye and so close Ste can smell him. "You're too good," Brendan murmurs, his eyes burning with sincerity and so much love that Ste aches with it. "Too much of a good person to waste yourself on a killer in prison. I ended things because you deserved better, but it doesn't mean it was what I wanted. Not even close." He swipes his thumbs over Ste's cheekbones, drops his voice to a pained whisper. "Broke my heart letting you go, Steven. Never felt pain like it in all my life."

Ste hitches a breath, his eyes stinging, and for once he doesn't want to think—he just wants to act on everything he feels, all the emotion swelling his chest and making him want to hold onto this man for the rest of his life. "Kiss me. I want you to kiss me."

Brendan doesn't hesitate, and Ste whimpers as their mouths meet and Brendan sweeps in with his tongue, kissing him deep and all-consuming and they end up on the bed within moments, both of them frenzied with it, tugging down trousers and fisting each other's dicks and Ste cries out, tilts his head back, uses his spare hand to grip Brendan's hair as Brendan devours his neck and throat and they stroke each other relentlessly.

It's the quickest sex Ste's ever had, but it's also so satisfying, such a release of pent-up emotion and desire, that he can't help but breathe an exhausted laugh as they collapse beside each other on the bed, both of them with their trousers around their thighs, looking like a couple of teenagers after a quick, illicit fumble.

"I'm going to Hollyoaks tomorrow," Ste says eventually, remembering Brendan's earlier words. "It's Katie's birthday."

Brendan looks across at him. "That's a hell of a coincidence."

"I know," Ste says, smirking.

"Think they're conspiring together?"

"What, the bank manager and my goddaughter?"

"Stranger things…" Brendan flashes a grin. He looks giddy, a lightness brightening his eyes, and Ste can't stop the next words from spilling from his lips.

"We can go up together, if you want. Take the one car."

"Stay tonight," Brendan says in response. His voice is oddly tight. "We'll stop at yours in the morning so you can get changed or whatever you need to do."

Ste doesn't give himself time to consider it. "Okay," he says quietly, and doesn't look at Brendan for his reaction. Doesn't think he'll be able to contain himself if he does. He sits up, starts tugging up his trousers. "I'm starving though."

Brendan reaches over to the bedside cabinet and grabs the piece of paper there. "Room service menu," he says, offering it to Ste.

"Keeping me hidden away, are you?"

"You wanna go out?" Brendan says, getting up and pulling his own clothes back into place. "We'll go out. Not sure what's open at this time though," he adds, checking his watch.

"Maybe I want you to walk through town holding my hand."

"I'll blow you in the middle of Tesco if that's what it takes." At Ste's surprised laugh, he says, "We've never been on a date, have we, you and me?"

"No, not really," Ste says. "Not a successful one anyway. It's okay though. We were never really about that."

Brendan drops to a crouch in front of where Ste's sat on the edge of the bed, puts his hands on Ste's knees—maybe for balance, maybe for contact. Either way, Ste's not looking to push him away.

"I want to give you normal, Steven. If you decide this is what you want—"

"Brendan…"

"I know you need time," Brendan says, reaching up to brush fingers against Ste's cheek. "We—this—us. It's always been all or nothing."

"Yeah."

It's an understatement. It's always been so intense between them—either painful conflict, bordering on hate, or so wrapped up in their own world together that they rarely saw anything but each other.

"I'm not gonna rush you," Brendan says. "But I want you to know—"

Ste smiles, tries to stop this train of thought. "You don't have to make me any more promises." Brendan's promises haven't always worked out well for him.

But Brendan ploughs on, seemingly determined to say his piece. "If you take me back, I will never—ever—leave you again. Couldn't drag me away. I will spend the rest of my life working to have you fall in love with me again."

Ste stares into his eyes, searches for anything that might hint at doubt or dishonesty. Then he says, "Room service," his throat swollen, because all he sees in Brendan's eyes is everything he's dreamed about since the day he lost him.

Brendan raises an eyebrow. "Thought you wanted to go out?"

"No," Ste says softly. "I like it here."

::: :::

Brendan watches Ste finish the last of his burger and chips, wiping his mouth with a napkin and necking half his glass of water.

"You good?" he asks him.

"Yeah." Ste looks over, gives him a smile. "You know, you can have a drink if you want. I don't mind."

"I'm fine with this," Brendan says, raising his own water glass and taking a sip. He could actually do with a beer or a whiskey to calm his pounding heart, but he's not going to do that to Steven.

"If you say so."

Brendan stares at him, can't seem to help himself. Continuously cataloguing every feature of him, all the places he's changed, all the bits that look exactly the same.

Steven's here, sitting across from him at this tiny table, and yet Brendan's still having trouble believing it. Surely he'll wake up soon, alone in his bed, flushed from a dream full of promise and hope at that warmth in Steven's eyes, the warmth Brendan's missed so much.

Steven's noticed the stare, but he doesn't look put out by it. He smiles, soft and self-conscious. "What?"

"Nothing," Brendan says, fighting down his embarrassment. Steven deserves to know the truth of his feelings, what it means to him to have them both here like this. "It's just nice. This. Having you here."

"Yeah?"

He runs his fingers down his glass, considers his words. He wants to give Steven something here—an insight into his own head, an understanding as to why this is all so monumentally important to him. The only way he can do that is with his honesty, and by battling his instinctive urge to keep his emotions locked away.

He wants Steven to know all of him, all the way down to his heart.

"When I was in my cell at night," he begins, "some halfwit car thief snoring in the bed opposite, I used to… I'd just lay there, close my eyes. Think about what it would be like to have you there with me." Steven swallows, looking as though he wants to interrupt. Brendan speaks again before he has chance to. "Not in prison, but just…with me. Made it easier somehow. I'd imagine all these scenarios, what we'd talk about, things we'd watch on TV together… places I'd take you if I had the chance again. Just…holding you, in the quiet. Just the two of us."

"Don't sound like you," Ste says, his huff of laughter dry and strained.

Brendan nods. "If prison gave me anything, it was time to think. Figure out what's important. I could hang on to all that anger and self-hate I'd carried around for most my life, allowing it to keep destroying everything I touched, or I could…let it go. And focus on what makes me happy."

Steven's eyes say more than his small smile can. "Seems you've got it all figured out."

"I was never worthy of your love, Steven," Brendan confesses. "I was always on borrowed time. I had to pay for my sins—"

"No, Brendan, what your dad—"

"I know. I was that way because of my father. He made me the man I hated. But I did need that redemption—for me, to forgive myself, to feel like I could be the kind of man who deserves you."

Steven leans forward, places his hand over Brendan's on the table. Brendan feels the touch all the way to his heart.

"It was never a case of you not deserving me, Brendan. I'm no saint."

"You always accepted me for who I was, I know that. I'll always be grateful for it." His throat is swelling, constricting his words, but he pushes on, needs to get it all out. "But I had to accept myself. And that's what prison did for me, what my therapist did for me…what living without you for so long did for me. I suffered, and I paid…and then I let it all go."

Steven swallows again. His eyes now are wet, reflecting everything Brendan feels.

"And now?"

"I don't know how many years I've got left on this earth," Brendan says, then he takes a breath of composure, of strength, "but I do know I want to spend them building a future with the man I love. It's not much to ask of the world, really—but I know it's a lot to ask of you. Asking you to have faith in me, to love me, after everything I've done…"

Steven looks away, down at his own lap; Brendan hears his breath hitch, desperately wants him to say something. He feels like he's been flayed open, exposing his heart in such a way; and he feels like his whole future hinges on how Steven takes it now.

When Steven looks up, his eyes are red-rimmed, his smile soft and warm. His hand is still on Brendan's, and he gives it a squeeze.

"You wanna watch a film?"

Brendan's stomach swoops. "What?"

"It's one of the things you used to imagine, isn't it?" Steven says, a tear slipping from his eye. He brushes it away without comment. "Lying in bed watching telly together?"

"Uh…yeah." Brendan's own eyes are stinging.

"Let's do it then, come on," Steven says, getting up and pulling on Brendan's hand. "It's not that late. You've missed _loads_ of good films while you were in prison."

"Missed a lot of things," Brendan says, and Steven's look is knowing. "You pick something then; I'll get all this cleared away."

It's with his heart thundering disbelief and elation into his ribs that he tidies the table and climbs into the bed beside Steven, the credits of some movie he's never heard of playing across the screen.

Steven looks over at him and smiles, and when Brendan lifts his arm, Steven shuffles closer and rests against his chest, making Brendan breathless with it all.

This feels like a beginning, and he can't contain himself enough to prevent his arm tightening around Steven's shoulders, the fierce kiss he presses into the top of his head.

They fall asleep together, and when Brendan wakes up, it's to the realisation that it's not a dream—Steven's still there.


	6. Chapter 6

Things are slightly awkward the next morning. Ste wakes up to Brendan looking at him and he smiles and stretches, waits for a touch or a kiss but he gets neither. Brendan returns the smile and mumbles something about getting a move on and then he gets up, and then it's just Ste sitting there on the bed waiting for him to get ready.

He knows last night left things up in the air. Brendan declared everything, laid himself open for Ste to feel it all; Ste said little in return, and as they leave the hotel room and head to Brendan's car, he can tell Brendan is unsure of where he stands now. He's making small-talk conversation and he's free with his smiles, but he doesn't try to touch Ste in any way.

They pull up outside Ste's place and Brendan shuts off the engine.

"Uh, wait here," Ste says.

He still doesn't want Brendan in his house in case this is all a dream and it goes wrong again, and then he's left with memories of Brendan in his space. It's not something he's willing to risk just yet.

He has a quick shower and gets changed and then he pokes his head into Jamie's room, which is still shrouded in darkness, Jamie little more than an indistinct lump beneath the covers.

"Jamie."

There's a groan and a shift of material and then: "Wha'?"

"I'll be gone all day," Ste tells him. "Off to see me goddaughter for her birthday."

"Right…"

He's unlikely to get any more out of him, so he leaves, gets back in the car. Brendan's sitting there playing the radio quietly while fiddling with his phone, and he gives Ste another smile before they set off again.

All smiles. Little else.

"We should stop and get some breakfast somewhere," Brendan says. "It's a long drive."

They stop in a small café and have a quick fry-up each. It's pleasant, the two of them doing something so normal together, but there's still that awkwardness. When Ste's knee brushes against Brendan's beneath the table, Brendan gives him a shifty look and continues eating, doesn't push into the contact like he might have done before.

Once they're back on the road, Ste comes to the conclusion that Brendan might be a little embarrassed. He admitted so much last night and Ste gave no indication of how much his words meant.

And now Brendan doesn't know if he has the right to touch Ste, and Ste's fed up with it.

"Stop the car."

Brendan gives him a sharp look out the corner of his eye. "What?"

"Just pull over somewhere. I need to say something."

"You can't say it while I'm driving?"

"No," says Ste, a hint of impatience in his tone, "just stop."

"All right…" It takes Brendan a few moments to find a safe place to turn, but eventually he pulls up onto the side of the road and shuts the engine off, shifts in his seat to face Ste better. "What d'you wanna say?" He looks nervous, as though he isn't sure he wants to hear it.

"This," says Ste, then he takes Brendan's face in his hand and pulls him in for a kiss.

Brendan lets out a small grunt of surprise in the instant their lips meet, then his hands come up immediately, holding him gently at the curve of his neck and shoulder, thumbs caressing the skin there as Ste licks into his mouth and closes his eyes and tilts his head to go deeper.

It's an uncomfortable angle, both of them turned to the side, and Ste's neck is straining with it. He shifts position, keeps the kiss going while he shuffles around to get his knees beneath him on the seat, kneeling now to face Brendan and leaning over him, kissing him harder, one hand on the back of Brendan's seat for balance and his other hand skimming down Brendan's body to his groin.

He breaks the kiss just slightly as he gets his hand wrapped around the swell of Brendan's dick through his trousers, a hot thrill coursing through his veins as Brendan hisses into his mouth.

"Thought you were gonna give me another wake-up call this morning."

"Wanted to…" Brendan murmurs, hips rolling up into the touch, tongue sweeping into Ste's mouth briefly before he adds, "Didn't know if I should…"

"Yeah, should've—" He starts stroking Brendan through his trousers, firm with it, the curve of Brendan fitting perfectly in his palm and it's always turned him on, the size of Brendan's dick, the pure masculinity of him when he's hard and throbbing and all of it for Ste, the perfection of him, all of it Ste's.

"Jesus, Steven—" He's pushing up into Ste's hand, matching his rhythm, and Ste's arm's starting to burn with it but he wants Brendan to come, wants to make Brendan come. He glances around quickly, his heart thundering in his ears, spies a block of old garages tucked away behind some trees.

"Pull in over there," he says, nodding at them.

"That's just a load of abandoned garages."

"Exactly." His grin, he hopes, says it all—and if it doesn't, the way he's making quick work of yanking open Brendan's belt and tugging his jeans open will give him the idea.

"Okay, let me just…" He starts the car, turns back onto the road as Ste sits down again while simultaneously pulling Brendan's dick from his jeans and stroking him, quick and hard. Brendan groans, brows furrowed in his attempt to concentrate. "Fuck, stop."

"No. C'mon." He works Brendan harder, presses his mouth to Brendan's jaw while he slicks precome on his palm and spreads it down Brendan's dick, strokes him relentlessly from root to tip, thumb catching the head.

Brendan's skin is staining pale red with it, his chest hitching with laboured breaths, fingers white-knuckled around the steering wheel.

"There are other cars on the road, you know."

"Better concentrate then," Ste says with a grin against Brendan's jaw.

Then the car rumbles to a crawl, Brendan letting out a groan of frustration as his hips jerk up into Ste's touch.

"Of all the times to be caught in a traffic jam…"

Ste's got no patience to wait for the traffic to clear; he shifts position so he has one knee down in the footwell and the other on the edge of his seat and then he bends over—handbrake digging uncomfortable into his stomach—and takes Brendan's dick in his mouth.

The taste of him explodes over his tongue and he groans as Brendan hisses and swears and his body jolts at the suddenness of it. The hand that should be on the gearstick tangles in Ste's hair and he's pushing him down like he can't help himself, holding Ste there so he can shove his dick in deep, releasing pressure just enough for Ste to suck up the length of him and back down, slurping around him with tongue and saliva and humming his pleasure around him.

Ste keeps knocking his head against the underside of the steering wheel as he bobs up and down, handbrake and gearstick and everything about this position uncomfortable, but he doesn't stop—sucks harder, takes Brendan deeper, lets Brendan's hisses and moans and swearing wash over him as finally the car starts moving again, and Ste feels it turn off in a different direction, and then it stops, thankfully, with Brendan switching off the ignition and—"I need—the handbrake—Jesus"—wedging a hand under him to jerk the handbrake then slumping back in his seat and putting both hands in Ste's hair to guide him up and down at the speed he likes, his thumb coming round the corner of Ste's mouth to feel himself gliding in and out.

Ste manages to get a hand inside Brendan's trousers and curves around his balls, feels the pressure of them in his palm as he squeezes a little and they pull up tight, Brendan getting close to the edge, his harsh breathing making way for tiny gasping moans and suddenly he's sucking air through his teeth and pushing Ste's head away and clamping his own hand around the base of his dick, staving off orgasm.

Ste watches him from a moment, licks saliva off his lips and straightens up and watches Brendan clench his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut and let his whole body go taut as he prevents his climax, holding it off, the pain of it washing over his face.

Eventually he eases down from it, his features smoothing out and his grip loosening on his dick. He opens his eyes to gaze at Ste with pupils blown wide with lust and says, "Get your trousers off."

Ste rushes to comply, slips his shoes off and starts shoving down his trousers and boxers as Brendan fumbles for the lever of his seat and pulls it, the seat scooting back to give them more room.

"We're so gonna get caught," Ste says, breathless with it, trying to shove his trousers off using just his feet but failing, having to bend down to tug on them. The leather upholstery of his seat is cold against his bare skin.

"Hope not," Brendan mumbles, distracted, shifting up to pull his wallet from his back pocket. "Only just got out of prison—"

Ste straightens up, shoots a glare at Brendan. "Don't joke about that!"

"You started it," Brendan drawls. He's retrieved a condom from his wallet and he tears the wrapper open with his teeth, rolls the condom on himself while smirking at Ste's irritation.

"It's not funny."

"Shut up and climb on."

Despite wanting to berate Brendan for his inappropriate humour, Ste shifts up onto his knees and across the seat until he can swing a leg over Brendan and straddle him. It's a tight fit—his head brushes the roof and if he leans back, the steering wheel presses against his back, but it just means he has to stay curled up close and tight with Brendan and he's not going to complain about that, not at all.

"Got no lube," Brendan mutters before shoving two fingers in his mouth and wetting them quickly. "C'mere." He pulls Ste into a kiss while he guides his wet fingers to Ste's hole, circles it briefly before going in with one finger.

It's uncomfortable at first. Brendan's always taken great care to open and stretch him, make it as easy as possible for him to take that big dick he loves so much. But they've got no time now, and they're out in the open in broad daylight, and Ste doesn't blame him for rushing it. He gives a moan of encouragement to let Brendan know it's okay and kisses him deep, distracting himself from the slight burn as Brendan works his finger in a few times before adding a second, his movements agitated as he desperately tries to loosen Ste enough. And Brendan's already so worked up, came so close to orgasm; the impatience to finish is clear in the rough, almost violent kiss he's giving him, his spare hand digging bruises into Ste's hip.

Ste concentrates on relaxing, pushes back on Brendan's fingers, until suddenly it's like someone flicks a switch and it starts feeling good, really fucking good, his dick swelling and hardening, pleasure dragging up his spine as Brendan pushes in deep and presses down a little from the inside, hitting Ste's sweet spot and making him cry out into Brendan's mouth.

"'Kay, I'm ready," he gasps, rocking back on Brendan's hand, desperate for more—for quicker, harder, fuller.

Brendan pulls back to look him in the eye. "You sure? It's gonna hurt."

Ste shakes his head to show what he thinks of that prediction and reaches behind to take Brendan's wrist, pull his fingers out of his body; then he lifts up, Brendan holding his own dick steady, and sinks down.

They both groan as Brendan slides in, and he's right, it does hurt—but it's a good kind of hurt, the edge of pain riding the pleasure flooding his body, making it sharper, more intense.

"_God_, Brendan," he breathes, partly because of the overwhelming sensation filling him, partly because the look in Brendan's eyes right now makes him feel like the only man in the world Brendan ever wants to look at.

They kiss while giving Ste's body a few moments to adjust, Brendan carding fingers through Ste's hair and across his cheeks and jaw and neck, touching him with reverence and kissing him deep and his dick twitching sporadically inside Ste, arousal still coursing through him.

"We need to be quick," Brendan murmurs against his lips, hands now gliding down Ste's back to smooth over his arse. "We don't know who might walk through here."

Ste gives an experimental roll of his hips, making them both hiss as Brendan's dick shifts inside him. "Bet I can make you come first."

Brendan's eyes glint. "I'll take that bet," he says before taking Ste's dick in a tight grip, ready for the challenge.

Then Ste, with a quick flash of a grin, starts riding him. He has one hand on Brendan's shoulder and the other on the window for leverage and he gives one slow slide up and down Brendan's dick, and another, and then he increases speed and locks Brendan's mouth in a messy kiss and he's bouncing on his lap, coming down heavy and quick on Brendan's cock, feeling him nudge up deep inside him on each thrust. Brendan's stroking him in a rhythm to match, dragging pleasure through his dick, mouths slack against each other as the coordination of the kiss fails and they share air and Brendan's spare hand is slipping beneath Ste's t-short to his nipple and pinching it and he _knows_ that's a hot spot for Ste, the bastard, a direct line to his cock, and he moans with it, body jerking at the shock of sensation, Brendan's lips curving in a smirk.

But Ste can play that game as well, and Brendan often likes a hint of pain in his pleasure—Ste dips his head down and catches the skin of Brendan's neck between his teeth, bites down as he clenches his hole tight around Brendan's dick, fucking him harder as Brendan hisses at the bite on his neck and then Ste sucking over it, bringing a bruise to the surface, and they're both panting hard now and Ste's head is spinning and there's hot, hot heat spreading all through his veins—

Brendan loses the bet, but only just. His body locks up in the instant before he shoves Ste down hard on his dick, burying himself as far in as he can go while clenching his teeth around the filthy groan rumbling in his throat and it's the sight of it, the sight of Brendan coming apart like this, that makes Ste's own orgasm crash over him in a dozen blissful waves, rolling through his body and making him cry out and somewhere between it all, while they're both jolting through such pure pleasure, Brendan has the brain power to think ahead—he cups his hand over the head of Ste's dick and catches his spunk, stops them both from ending up sticky, white-painted messes.

After, still trying to catch his breath, Ste watches—completely mesmerised—as Brendan licks his hand clean, sucking down Ste's come and letting out a little moan with it, then pulling Ste in for a kiss so he can taste himself.

"I wonder if we'll ever have bad sex," Brendan mumbles pensively, rocking his hips up an inch or so to push a bit deeper into Ste's body.

It makes Ste smile, and he drags a kiss along Brendan's jaw. "Getting ahead of yourself there."

"Can't get enough of you," Brendan says before pulling Ste's face back up for another kiss, licking in deep and giving shallow thrusts of his hips, stimulating the sensitive nerves in Ste's hole and inner walls and Ste can feel Brendan hardening again inside him and he whines in his throat and burrows closer to Brendan's body and he could go again, he reckons, reawakened arousal starting to spiral through his veins.

Then Brendan breaks from the kiss and knocks his head back against the headrest, frustration clear in his eyes. "I don't have another condom."

Ste grimaces and twists around to look at the clock on the dashboard. "And I'm gonna be late for Katie's party."

They sigh in unison. Then, with a final kiss, Brendan taps Ste on the backside. "Time to make a move."

Ste gets back in his seat and starts working his clothes back on, watching out the corner of his eye as Brendan removes the condom and throws it out the window.

He wrinkles his nose. "That's gross."

"You wanted to keep it?" Brendan asks, zipping up his trousers and tugging his belt through the loop. "Souvenir?"

"Don't be disgusting, ugh."

They arrive in Hollyoaks a couple of hours later. Ste can't deny the strangeness washing over him, the disjointed, conflicting emotions of all his good memories here with Brendan warring with everything bad, everything dark and lonely and bitter.

This is where his life truly began. It's also where he lost everything. And every inch of this place holds a memory for him.

"It's weird being here, innit?" He's speaking quietly, almost under his breath. There's a slight tremble to his voice.

"Yeah." Brendan's own voice is gruff and heavy. He brings the car to a stop near the arch, leaves the engine running and trails his fingers back and forth over the bottom of the steering wheel, a nervous action that doesn't make Ste feel any better.

Suddenly he'd give anything to stay in this car.

But he has to get out. He can't let Sinead and Katie down.

"Let's just…" he begins. Brendan is pointedly not looking at him. Ste desperately wants to know what's going through his head. "What time do you think you'll be through with Jim and the bank manager and everything?"

"Uh…" Brendan checks his watch, scratches his jaw in thought. "Pick you up back here around six?"

"Okay." He gives a tight little nod, and finally Brendan looks at him. There's nothing but dark concern in his eyes.

"You gonna be all right?"

"Yeah," Ste says, then tries to make his voice stronger. "Yeah. It's not like before. I mean… you're right here." Because that was always the problem, the reason he spiralled so far out of control. He was alone. Brendan had left him.

But Brendan's back now, and he's not going anywhere, and Ste believes him when he says he'll be back to pick him up in a few hours. It's all going to be perfectly okay.

"I can come with you."

Ste shakes his head, gives an approximation of a smile. "I'll be back at six."

Brendan grabs him by the front of his shirt suddenly, tugs him in for a brief, fierce kiss. "Have fun," he mumbles after, and Ste's left with no choice but to get out of the car and face this place.

He walks through the village quickly, head down and arms tucked in, doesn't look up into anyone's face, doesn't glance at any of the buildings—what used to be the deli, the club, anything that holds a significant space in his history.

Walking up the steps to Sinead's flat is a surreal experience. He nearly had a heart attack when he found out she'd taken over Brendan's old flat, didn't quite know how to handle it, and he turned down all invitations to visit. The only time he's come here is when he's been able to meet Sinead on neutral ground—a picnic in the park, or a meal in Tony's restaurant. None of the visits were comfortable, and he was on edge the whole time, putting on a brave face and refusing Sinead's offer for a movie at her place, or drinks in the club.

But this is Katie's birthday party, and he needs to man up.

He takes a deep breath before knocking on Brendan's—Sinead's—front door.

It opens almost immediately, revealing Sinead in all her made-up, big-hair glory. She's wearing a red-painted grin and she flings her arms around him, making him laugh with the tightness of her hug.

"You all right?" he asks, rubbing the small of her back.

She pulls away from him, grabs him by the shoulders and peers into his face. "You look…different?"

"Do I?" He squirms a little under the attention.

"Yeah," she says, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. "Kinda glowing. Like you just had sex." Ste must show something on his face, because her jaw drops, eyes opening wide. "You never! Oh my god, tell me everything."

His face burns instantly, but fortunately he's saved from answering by a little head poking around the door near her mum's legs.

"Katie! Wow, look how big you've got." He crouches down to her level, gives her a big smile. "How old are you now? Two? Three?"

She giggles. "Five."

"Five! Nearly old enough to move out and come live with me," he says, nuzzling his knuckles against her chubby little cheek.

"She would as well," Sinead says. "Always banging on about you."

He gets to his feet, watching Katie disappear back inside. "I miss her. Miss you both."

Sinead gives him a warm smile, her eyes twinkling. "Well come in. Mum's here with everyone."

It's surprisingly okay, being inside Brendan's old flat. It looks completely different—Sinead's put her own mark on it, changed everything about the furniture and décor, and while he still has the feel of Brendan standing here in this living room, there's no sense of loss, none of the dark feelings he was expecting. He supposes that has more to do with knowing Brendan's just five minutes away than with how different his old home looks now.

He heads into the kitchen, finds Tony where Tony always is—in front of the cooker.

"Here he is," he says, spotting Ste, face splitting in a grin. "Come here, you."

They have a long, clinging hug, and Ste dips his head a little to breathe him in. He can't believe how close he came to losing this man, how close all of them came.

"How are you?"

"Good, yeah. Really good." He pats Ste's shoulder before releasing him. "You're looking a lot better."

"I am," Ste says, smiling, warmth blooming in his chest at the honesty of that response. "Things are going well for me at the moment."

"Hey, that's great. Listen—" Tony drops his voice, glances behind to make sure they're still alone. "You know Brendan got released."

Ste nods. "Yeah, I know." He realises too late that he should've at least attempted an expression of concern.

"He came to the village looking for you."

"I told him where to find you," Sinead says, appearing in the kitchen and wearing an apologetic grimace. "I'm sorry, I didn't know if—"

"It's fine, you're fine." He smiles at her. "Everything's…"

"Fine?" Tony and Sinead say together, making Ste huff a small laugh.

"Yeah. Fine."

Tony frowns at him. "Did he come find you?"

"Yep," Ste says, after a moment of hesitation.

"And…?"

"And I'm not sure what to say yet," he mumbles awkwardly. "Can we just… I didn't come all this way to talk about my love life, did I? Let's have a party," he adds, clapping his hands together in a show of enthusiasm.

Tony and Sinead share a look. "Love life," Tony says.

"You said love life," says Sinead.

"Figure of speech! No, Sinead—" But it's too late. She's already digging her fingers into his ribs, trying to tickle the truth out of him.

By the time he heads back to Brendan's waiting car a few hours later, he's full up on sweets and Coke and cake, his skin flushed from chasing all of Katie's little friends around, his throat a bit dry from bellowing through pop songs on Sinead's karaoke machine. He climbs into the car, says a quick, "Hiya," before smacking a kiss on Brendan's mouth.

Brendan's looking at him with a bemused smile. "Good day, was it?"

"Yeah," Ste says with a grin

There's undeniable relief in Brendan's eyes when he says, "You look happy."

"Nice to see some old faces, you know?"

"Hmm." Brendan starts the car, drives away until the Hollyoaks sign begins to fade in the rear view mirror. "You ever miss this place?"

"Yeah, 'course I do," Ste says, and he means it. "It was my home for so long. But I don't regret moving away from it." Not when it gave him the new start he so desperately needed, took him away from every painful memory dragging him down until he was drowning with it.

"So you'd never come back here?" There's a curious edge to Brendan's voice that makes Ste frown.

"My life's moved on," he says, then he sits back, gets comfortable for the drive. "It's nice to visit now and then, but I'm done with Hollyoaks now."

"Okay." Brendan flashes him a quick, warm smile, before giving Ste's knee a squeeze. "Let's get you home."

Ste gets so lost in thoughts of Sinead and Tony and the surprisingly good day he's had, that it takes him a while to realise he hasn't asked how Brendan's day went. He looks over at him now; he appears relaxed, fingers tapping idly against the steering wheel to the radio playing softly.

"Did you get everything sorted?"

"Yeah," Brendan says, nodding. "All done."

"Good." Ste smiles at him, waits for Brendan to return it, before digging his phone out of his pocket. "Just gonna give Manny a call, see if I'm on the lunch shift tomorrow…" The call goes to voicemail. "Hi Manny, call us back please. Ta."

"You pretty close to this guy?" Brendan asks once Ste's finished.

"Manny? Yeah. He leads the AA group I go to." He turns slightly in his seat to better face Brendan. "Suppose we just clicked really. He gave me a job, we started spending some of our free time together… Now he's one of the most important people in my life. Dunno what I would've done without him past couple of years." He's given Ste almost everything he cherishes in his new life—his sobriety, the reconnection with his kids, a job he loves. Ste owes him so much, and he has no idea how he'll ever repay him. "You should meet him," he says now. "Properly."

He wants Brendan to know Manny. Wants Brendan to meet the man who saved him from himself, who held him together in Brendan's absence. It seems vitally important to him, suddenly, that the two of them meet. Look each other in the eye. For Manny to see Brendan and speak to him and understand.

Brendan raises an eyebrow. "Like a meet-the-parents kind of thing?"

"I dunno. I guess." He shrugs. "Just think you'd get on. He's like, proper wise and shit."

"A ringing endorsement from Steven Hay there," Brendan says with a smirk. But he's not refusing the idea, and Ste can't help but smile.

"Shut up," he says, tutting, as his phone rings. "Hiya," he says to Manny down the phone. "Just on my way back now—what time am I in tomorrow?"

"So?" Brendan asks once Ste's ended the call and slipped his phone back in his pocket.

"Not 'til five."

Brendan shifts a little in his seat. When he speaks, it's obvious he's trying to keep his voice casual. "You staying with me tonight?"

"Do you want me to?" He grins at the look Brendan gives him. "Why don't we stop somewhere?"

"What?"

"Away from everything for one night. Like…" He glances around, spots one of those roadside hotels found near service stations. "Look, we can get a room, spend the night…"

"I'm not taking you to a goddamn Premier Inn."

Ste's enthusiasm shuts down instantly and he slumps back in his seat, feeling the sting of rejection. "Just an idea," he mumbles.

"Hold on," says Brendan, and then he's steering into the service station and finding a parking spot.

"What're you doing?"

Brendan gets out his phone, launches his internet browser. "Finding the nearest decent hotel," he murmurs, then spends a few moments going through his search, Ste watching him silently, his heart racing at the prospect of having Brendan all alone, miles away from any possible interruption. Brendan finds what he's looking for, clicks something and puts the phone to his ear. "Hi, yeah, wanting to know if you've got a room free," he says, nodding at whatever the person is replying. "A double," he adds, looking at Ste out the corner of his eye. "All right, thanks. Can we have a late check-in? Couple of hours."

Once he puts his phone away, Ste asks him, "Why a couple of hours?"

Brendan starts the car. "We need to get dinner first. I'm starving."

"I'm not dressed for dinner."

"You look fine," Brendan says, glancing at him, giving him the full once-over and making Ste blush.

"Oh yeah, me in me trackies and you in your tailored suit. We make a right pair. What are people gonna think?"

Brendan smirks at him. "Fuck 'em."

After a few wrong turns, they find the small town in which Brendan's booked them a hotel room; they park down a side street of the town centre and walk together to the nearest restaurant Brendan likes the look of. It's Italian, and with the sun going down, it's lit inside by candles and low lamps, making Ste feel romantic whether he wants to or not.

They get a table near the window and order quickly, both opting to forgo a starter and head straight for the main course. Ste doesn't want to spend long in this restaurant. There's a hotel room waiting for them.

They don't talk much during dinner, just casual conversation to pass the time, and after, once their plates are cleared away and Ste's sitting back with his mineral water, he asks one of the questions he's been wondering about ever since he heard Brendan speak of it.

"What was therapy like?"

He never in a million years thought Brendan would find any benefit in therapy. The man didn't have the first clue about how to open up. At least, back then he didn't.

Brendan takes a sip of his own water before clearing his throat. "Difficult," he says. "I didn't…it took me a while to give in to it."

Ste swallows. "Did you talk about your dad?"

"Talked about everything," Brendan says swiftly, with a nod, as if trying to sweep away that line of questioning as quickly as possible.

Ste gives him a soft smile. "I'm glad it worked."

"I'm gonna carry it on. You know, on the outside. Find a therapist."

Surprised, Ste says, "I think that's a really good idea." He plays with Brendan's fingers on the table for a moment, the weight of Brendan's warm gaze on him, before he sits back again and asks, "Do you have any kind of plan? What you're gonna do next."

"Not yet," Brendan admits. "Can't really think more than a day ahead at the moment."

Ste grins at him. "You must be so bored."

"Certain things are keeping me occupied," Brendan drawls, eyes glittering in the candlelight. Then his expression sobers, and he asks, "What happened to the deli?"

"I quit the business," Ste says with a sigh. "Eventually signed over my share. Last I heard it ran into debt and Doug had to give it up."

Brendan drums his fingers against the table for a moment, one of his awkward ticks. "You and Douglas…did you ever…"

"Once," Ste says, grimacing, watching Brendan's eyes cloud over. "There was one night where I was wasted and he was keeping me company and things just…got out of hand. We never talked about it after."

Uncomfortable isn't close to describing it. He barely remembers that night—a lot of drunken fumbling, some misjudged attempts to line things up properly, and then a confusing sort of orgasm that only left him feeling emptier. They'd avoided each other for a week after.

After a long moment of consideration, Brendan says levelly, "So you didn't get back together at all." It's not a question, and Ste can almost see the effort Brendan's making in getting his reaction to this information under control.

"No," Ste says, his voice a little heavier now. He still feels some guilt for how he treated Doug back then—especially when they were still together and married, and Ste's thoughts were still consumed with the man sitting opposite him now. "He was always second best and he knew it. Wouldn't have been fair on him." He lightens up enough to say, "He had a thing going with your John Paul for a while."

Brendan draws his eyebrows together. It's clear he has no idea what Ste's talking about. "My John Paul?"

"The guy you slept with in Dublin the day I came for you. The McQueen."

"Oh," says Brendan, glancing away briefly. "Him. Not exactly _my_ anything, is he?"

"Never know." Ste shrugs, tries not to smile. "If I hadn't shown up…"

"He was just a distraction, Steven," Brendan says irritably. "Thought we got over this."

"We did. Funny though, innit. Your ex and my ex hooking up—"

He almost wants to laugh, the way Brendan looks as though he'd like to disappear into a hole in the ground right now. But then his tone switches, and there's a hint of anger now, frustration.

"He wasn't my ex. I don't even remember what he looks like."

Ste tutts, rolls his eyes. "That's real nice, that is," he says, and then he watches the darkness of irritation filter into Brendan's eyes. An edgy, possessive, mildly angry Brendan can be the best kind of Brendan when it comes to drawing pleasure from Ste's body. "Wonder if you'd still remember me if we only slept together the one time," he pushes, deliberately now, skin starting to tingle with the possibility of what might come next.

"Steven—"

He leans forward in his seat, looks directly into Brendan's face and lowers his voice. "I'd probably just be another notch on your bedpost."

"Are you trying to wind me up?"

"Yes."

"It's working."

"Good."

"Bill please," Brendan says, raising his hand for the waiter.

They pay the bill and make it out of the restaurant in record time, and they don't walk more than a dozen steps down the street before Brendan mutters, "C'mere," and tugs Ste into a dark alley and pushes him against the wall.

The thrill of it is making Ste's blood burn through his veins.

Brendan goes in for a rough kiss, wastes no time getting his hand down Ste's trousers and fisting his cock. Ste's gasping within seconds, the pace of it all taking his breath away, Brendan's immediate assault on his senses making pleasure crash through him.

Brendan breaks from the kiss to press his forehead to Ste's, still fisting his cock, stroking him in a steady rhythm that has Ste arching his back into it, keening low in his throat.

"How many other men did you fuck when I wasn't here?"

Ste can barely catch his breath enough to ask, "What?"

"You heard me."

"I dunno. A few." He shakes his head, pushes his hips up into Brendan's tight grip on his cock. "But none of 'em—none of 'em meant anything."

"Did any of them make you feel like this?"

"No—please—"

"No one else touches you now, you understand me?" Brendan growls, stroking him faster, harder, forcing an orgasm to claw at the edges of Ste's senses already. "No one. This is all mine," he adds, spare hand slipping beneath clothes to drag fingers across Ste's ribs. "_You're_ all mine."

He's hardly got any concentration left in him, no focus other than what Brendan's doing to his dick, but he manages to get a hand on Brendan's face and force him to meet his eyes. "Look at me," he says, and tries to make his voice firm even as a groan swells in his chest, constricting his words. "It goes both ways."

"That's never been a problem for me. Not with you."

"Good," Ste pants, and he's so close, can't believe how quickly he's bent to Brendan's will. He puts his hands on Brendan's shoulders and pushes down. "Get on your knees."

Brendan gives him a look full of darkness and lust before plundering his mouth in a quick, frenzied kiss and then sinking to his knees as requested, opening his mouth for Ste's cock and swallowing him down once, twice, and then Ste's coming all over his tongue and down his throat, his climax tearing through him and making him shove a fist in his own mouth to stifle his cries.

When Brendan gets to his feet, Ste attempts to return the favour, but Brendan stops him with a kiss.

"I can wait," he murmurs, hands traveling down Ste's body, feeling him all over. "Wanna get you spread out naked on a bed, taste every inch of you."

"Every inch?" Ste's arousal isn't even close to sated, and Brendan's statement makes his dick give a twitch, attempting to rise again.

Brendan smoothes a hand over his backside, fingers pressing against the middle seam, pushing against his hole. "Everywhere."

It's a rush to get to the hotel. They stop at a late-night shop on the way so Brendan can nip in to purchase condoms and lube, and by the time they've found the hotel and checked in and been shown up to their room, Ste's arousal has abated a little. It's still a pleasant tingle thrumming in his veins, but there's not so much urgency now, and he can take a moment to look around.

"This is nice," he says, and while Brendan's checking out the minibar and the TV package and the room service menu, he adds, "Just gonna get a quick shower," and disappears into the bathroom before Brendan can respond.

He's spent too many hours in the car today, making him feel clammy and a bit gross and in need of a scrub. He sets the shower to a hot spray and gets in, stands directly beneath the water and soaks himself through, idly stroking his semi-hard dick as steam fills the cubicle and his mind hums pleasantly with nothing.

The door opens a moment later, letting in a blast of cool air, and then Brendan's there, crowding in close behind him. Ste tutts at him over his shoulder.

"D'you mind?" His voice is almost lost in the pounding of the water against the tiles.

"Nope." Brendan's got a condom wrapper and his tube of lube in hand, which he places on in the caddy in the corner of the cubicle. Ste's dick hardens instantly and he plasters himself back against Brendan's chest, reaches behind to feel the warm, wet skin of Brendan's muscular thighs behind his own.

"Thought you wanted me on the bed?"

"A man can change his mind," Brendan murmurs in his ear, stroking his hands down Ste's chest and to his cock, one hand wrapping around him while the other goes lower to cup his balls, squeeze them gently. "And when you look this good wet…"

Ste moans at the touch, feels the hardness of Brendan pressing snugly into his lower back, wants to bend over and take that dick deep inside him but Brendan's got other ideas. He pushes on Ste's shoulders until he bends over a little, hands braced on the tiles for balance and water cascading down his back; then Brendan gets on his knees behind him, parts his buttocks, and goes in with his tongue.

Ste jolts with it, a groan catching in his throat. This is the first time he's had anyone's mouth there in years—no one's done this for him since Brendan. No one would ever do it as good as Brendan even if the opportunity had arisen.

The sensation is intense, Brendan's tongue licking around his hole, catching shower water as he spreads his own saliva and slicks Ste's tight muscle until he's loose enough with it, loose enough for Brendan to press the tip of his tongue inside before burying his face against Ste with a deep groan and attacking him with tongue and lips, slurping and sucking at him, using his thumbs to hold Ste's hole open for his tongue to push in and lick the inside of him, stimulate all the nerves there and force a cry from Ste, his knees threatening to buckle.

Ste doesn't know how long it goes on for but he's delirious with it, the steam of this shower mixing with his hazy vision and he doesn't know if he's moaning or Brendan's moaning but he can feel it all, everything Brendan's doing to him, shockwaves of electric pleasure shooting through his body and deep into his bones, making him tremble and heave breaths and he's going to come like this, with his hole clenching over Brendan's tongue and his dick completely untouched; can feel his climax creeping down his spine and pooling in his gut and he's crying out, so close, just one more sweep of that tongue inside him—

Brendan pulls away suddenly, making Ste whimper with confusion and frustration and the agony of an interrupted orgasm. He's reaching behind himself blindly to pull Brendan's mouth back to him but Brendan's on his feet now, and there's a sharp sound of a wrapper tearing, and then lube-slicked fingers pressing into him roughly, perfectly—and then Brendan's filthy groan in his ear as he thrusts his dick inside him, filling him, so much intense pleasure flooding him.

"You still with me?" Brendan breathes into his ear, hand beneath his chin to pull his head up and back.

Ste manages a noise that's supposed to be confirmation and it's enough for Brendan: he starts fucking into him instantly, no steady build of rhythm—an immediate, harsh rock of his hips as he thrusts in deep, hitting Ste's prostate without effort and muffling Ste's scream with a neck-straining kiss, almost lifting Ste off the floor with it, forcing him onto tiptoes.

The water's hot on his skin and Brendan's burning behind him and it's slippery and he might fall but he doesn't care, doesn't care about anything but the orgasm racing through his veins and Brendan letting himself groan freely and with abandon behind him and it all crashes into him at once, Brendan pushing in as deep as he can go and groaning his orgasm into his ear and his own dick pulsing out spunk, washing away with the shower water. And when it's over and his knees finally give out, they collapse together to the floor of the shower cubicle, both of them too wrung-out to complain about it.

::: :::

"You know that night…"

Brendan's roused awake again by that one sentence, the one sentence he's been dreading ever since he reconnected with Steven. They're in bed together, naked and still flushed from the shower, Steven laying on Brendan's chest and Brendan tracing lazy patterns into his back, his mind drifting with satisfaction and the onset of sleep.

But Steven's spoken the one thing he didn't want to talk about, and now he's wide awake again.

He sighs gently. "Do we really need to talk about it?"

Steven glances up at him, his eyes beseeching. "I've never had chance to, have I?" he says, before resting his head back on Brendan's chest.

He can't avoid it forever, and Steven's right—Brendan never gave him the opportunity to ask his questions, figure out exactly what happened that night. The boy must have been plagued with confusion and doubt for so long. Brendan owes him the answers he needs.

"Okay," he says heavily, bracing himself. "What about it?"

"Well…" Steven begins, his tone measured, calm. But Brendan can detect the underlying agitation there. "I just…you were gonna die on that balcony. That was your plan."

"Yeah." There's no point denying it. He raised a gun with the full intent of being shot down.

Steven hesitates, and when he does speak, his voice is small. "I know you hate prison, but to just…"

"It was the only choice I had left, Steven," Brendan says, giving him a gentle squeeze.

"It wasn't, though—Cheryl—"

"Steven."

"Did you even think about me?" There's pain there. Brendan was expecting it, but it doesn't make it any easier to take.

"No," he says, and it's mostly the truth. "Not when I was making that decision. If I did, then I never would've been strong enough to—" The words catch in his throat, and he takes a deep breath of composure. Steven has gone very still against him, as though he isn't breathing at all. "I couldn't let my little sister go to prison, Steven."

They fall into a silence, but Brendan knows it isn't over. He can practically feel Steven's brain ticking over, trying to piece it all together.

"If you'd just let me in," Steven says eventually, "I wouldn't have called the police. Would've known you were all right."

Brendan shakes his head, even though Steven's not looking at him to see it. "Letting you in meant making you a part of it. There was no way in hell I was gonna put that on you."

"We could've dealt with it," Steven says, looking up at him again. His eyes are shining, and Brendan's heart clenches at the sight of it. "Together. None of this had to—"

"Stop," Brendan murmurs, putting a hand to Steven's face, caressing his cheek. "Just stop. Okay? You would've—I'm never gonna regret keeping you out of it, Steven."

Steven's swallow is audible, his voice strained when he speaks. "Worst day of my life, that."

Brendan rolls them over, gets on top of Steven and presses a soft kiss to his mouth. "I'm sorry," he whispers, moving to Steven's cheek, his jaw. "I didn't mean to do any of this to you. I only ever wanted to protect you. Keep you safe."

Steven's arms come up tight around him, holding him close, and Brendan spends half the night making love to every part of Steven's body, pressing his apology into his skin, his regret and pain and the years of carrying this around, this wall between them, leaving Steven hanging without explanation, leaving him to feel as if he didn't care enough to let him in that night—not just into the building, but into the decision, a decision that would affect their whole future.

Apologising for trying to get himself killed, and then getting himself locked away, and never once giving this man he loves so much the opportunity to understand.

They're both shaking when it's over, and there are tears in Steven's eyes to reflect the emotion caught in Brendan's throat, and when Brendan gathers him close, Steven holds on tight and they fall asleep together, Brendan full of the feeling that maybe this is the end of it now, the end of that chapter of his life. Now they can start again.

::: :::

He wakes up slowly, sunlight filtering through his eyelids and rousing his body, making him aware of the other warm body pressed against him. He smiles tiredly to himself and rolls over until he's got that other warm body beneath him, gives a lazy roll of his hips into morning hardness.

Steven's eyelids flutter open and Brendan's kissing his throat before he can even work out he's awake.

"Mmm," he purrs into Steven's sleep-soft skin. "Morning."

"Hello," Steven rumbles against him, sounding all groggy and confused and a little aroused. Then, sharply: "Oh my god, look at the time!" And all of a sudden Brendan's being shoved to the side and Steven's bounding out of bed.

Brendan blinks at him. "What?"

"We have to check out in fifteen minutes," Steven says, hunting around for his clothes before apparently realising he's not going to find them here. "Come on, we've gotta move." He disappears into the bathroom and Brendan, with a grunt of frustration, climbs out of bed.

Steven reappears, clothes in hand; he's still gloriously naked and Brendan's still hard and really, fifteen minutes is loads of time.

"Steven—" He crowds in behind him, shoves him forward until he hits the dresser.

Steven releases a huff of laughter, looking at Brendan in the mirror. "There's no time, Brendan."

"There's always time." He lifts one of Steven's knees, gets him to hook it up on the dresser, opening himself for Brendan's touch and view. "Don't move." He's across the room and back again within an instant, lube and condom in hand, Steven hunched low over the dresser, his eyes dark on him now in the mirror, his lips parted.

He doesn't need much preparing, still loose from the previous night's activities. It's a cursory touch, pushing two lube-slicked fingers inside him, getting him slick enough to take Brendan's cock. Then Brendan rolls on his condom and lines up and thrusts in to the delicious sound of Steven's bone-deep groan.

The dresser thumps against the wall with the power of Brendan fucking into Steven a few moments later, no doubt alerting next door to them. It makes Brendan go quicker, harder, keeping eye contact with Steven in the mirror even as he leans over to bite and suck at Steven's shoulder.

It doesn't take them long to come, and after, Brendan slumped over Steven's back and Steven laughing at the whole thing, there's a tentative knock on the door.

They both ignore it.

"You're so horny all the time," Steven says, eyes glittering in the mirror, his skin flushed.

"Making up for lost years."

Steven grins. "I'm not complaining."

"Mr Brady, sir," says a voice outside the door, accompanied by another knock, this one more forceful, "your check-out time has passed. If you wish to request a late check-out—"

"Give us five minutes," Brendan shouts back, then drops his forehead to Steven's shoulder with a groan. "Damn jobsworths."

::: :::

Ste can't stop looking at him. Can't stop smiling. When Brendan notices, glancing away from the road to raise an eyebrow at him, Ste says, "You're different."

"I am?"

"Yeah," says Ste. "You're still my Brendan, but…I don't know." He can't put into words how it all makes him feel, only that he knows it feels good. "I like it though. This version of you."

"Good to know," Brendan grunts awkwardly, blushing under the attention.

A while later, Brendan looks across at him and rolls his eyes fondly. "Now what're you smiling about?"

"Dunno." Ste can't help the small, giddy laugh. "Just happy. Feel like…my life's making sense again."

Brendan clears his throat, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "Steven, are we—is this—"

Ste's phone rings, and he gives Brendan an apologetic grimace. He knows what Brendan was about to ask, and he's pretty sure he's ready to give an answer now.

"Hang on," he says before answering his phone. "Hiya, Linda."

"Ste."

The sound of her voice in that one word alone is enough for the bottom to fall out of Ste's world.

"Is everything all right?"

"Ste." Her voice is a broken mess and Ste's ears ring with it, white noise filling his head.

"What is it? What's happened? Is Manny…?"

He's vaguely aware of Brendan glancing at him in concern but he can't focus on that, not when the icy fingers of dread are clawing at his skin.

"They're telling me something about—about a tumour. In his head. He had a fall—"

"He's all right though, yeah?" Something about his voice must register with Brendan because the car slows to a stop at the side of the road, Brendan cutting off the ignition and turning to face him, his brows drawn. "He's gonna be okay?"

"He—he died an hour ago. My husband—he's—he's—"

He must have misheard, because there's no way—no way—"No," he says, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth, his chest splitting down the middle with the kind of pain he's not felt for years, not since that night. "_No._ He can't—"

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice shattered, sniffling and letting out the smallest of sobs that makes Ste's heart _break_ for her. "I have to go. I'll be at the hospital a while yet."

"I'll come get you." He motions for Brendan to start the car again, impatience in his gestures, brushing Brendan's hand away when he tries to touch him. "Just—just…"

"I'll see you soon, love, okay?"

The phone goes dead, leaving Ste with nothing but deafening silence. His whole body feels numb—everything except his chest, which feels like there's a gaping hole there, where his heartbeat should be.

Brendan steers back onto the road, going too slowly. "What's happened?"

"Manny died," Ste says hollowly. "I was in a hotel getting laid while Manny was dying."

"You didn't know."

"Just drive. Get me there quick."

::: :::


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: There are a ton of you who are going to hate how this ends, probably the same ton of you who hated the story throughout. :p But I wanted it done and this ending was outlined from the start, so I was never going to change it.**

**Thanks for reading. The first chaptered fic I can label as "complete". :)**

::: :::

Brendan watches from the sidelines, feeling totally useless, plastic chair creaking under the weight of him whenever he shifts in agitation. He's never liked hospitals, and he's itching to leave. But he can't. He won't.

Linda's a wreck. Brendan's not spoken to her, not been anywhere near her. Accompanied Steven into this room and stood back while Steven surged forward and gathered Linda in his arms and let her cry on his shoulder. Steven's face is a deep-lined map of pain and Brendan's heart aches for him.

He wishes there was something he could do.

Eventually Linda's friend arrives and takes over the consoling duties and Steven is kindly but somewhat firmly ordered home to rest. He tries to argue, but Linda's maternal nature pushes through and she touches his cheeks and brushes her thumbs under the swollen circles beneath his eyes and gives him a watery, wobbly smile while telling him she's fine now with her friend, that she needs some time to get her head around things.

Steven's trying to be strong. Silent. Saying nothing as Brendan leads him out of the hospital and into the car and to his house. He doesn't object to Brendan following him inside his home; barely even seems to register it.

"Maybe I'll run you a bath—"

Steven's not listening. He's made a beeline for the kitchen sink—his quaint, rough-around-the-edges kitchen to which Brendan gives only a cursory glance—and he's opening the cupboard beneath it, crouching down to reach inside for something.

Brendan watches him curiously. There's something determined about his expression, something painful and almost self-loathing. A moment later, Brendan realises why.

Steven pulls an unopened bottle of vodka from the depths of the cupboard and stands straight with it clasped firmly in his grip.

Brendan's heart skips a beat.

"What're you doing?"

He's not listening. A part of Brendan wonders if he's even aware he's here with him. The cap of the bottle comes off with a white-knuckled twist of shaking fingers and Brendan's lurching forward before his mind's caught up, gripping Steven's wrist and preventing him from lifting the bottle to his lips.

Steven notices him then. Looks up at him with eyes so sharp and cold, Brendan feels the shiver right down to his bones. His voice is both hollow and steely, a confusing juxtaposition.

"Get off me."

Brendan does, instantly, trusting for the moment that Steven won't go through with this. He wouldn't.

"Why've you even got that?"

"Emergencies," Steven spits. He waves the bottle in Brendan's direction. "This is a fucking emergency, okay?" Then he lifts it to his mouth again, and Brendan grabs him.

"You're not touching that, Steven."

"I said _get off_." He shoves, hard, making Brendan stumble backwards. Some of the vodka sloshes out of the bottle, splashes onto the tiles beneath their feet. "Just go away, Brendan. I don't need you here."

Brendan sees red in the same moment a hot burst of pain coils in his gut. He uses both emotions to his advantage.

"D'you think this is what he'd want of you? You heading straight to the bottle after everything he did to help you stay off it?"

Steven looks as though he's just been slapped around the face, and his voice is nearly gasping when he speaks. "Don't you _dare_—don't you—"

"Just give me that," Brendan says heavily, attempting to pull the bottle from Steven's grip. But Steven's still fighting him, determined in his devastation.

"No. Leave me alone."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"This is what I am, Brendan!" Steven suddenly explodes, wrenching himself away from Brendan and spreading his arms wide, an invitation for Brendan to see this moment for what it is: a desperate man, crying out for help. "I'm an alcoholic! When things get bad I pick up a bottle of vodka and I drink until I can't feel anymore. If you can't handle it, you can leave."

Brendan shakes his head, takes a hesitant step forward.

"You're not gonna scare me away. I'm staying, and I'm not letting you drink that, and you can hate me for it all you want."

"You can't stop me."

"Yeah? Try me."

There's a challenge in his words and his tone and Steven blinks over at him, wavering, before his eyes narrow and all of his self-hatred washes over his face. Brendan would give anything to take this heartbreak from him.

"I won't let you tarnish his memory like this, Steven."

His words have the desired effect. As if someone's flipped a switch, Steven suddenly turns in a hot spark of rage and throws the bottle against the wall, glass shattering and Steven shaking and then he crumples, and Brendan's there to catch him.

"Shh, it's okay. I've got you." He smoothes hands over Steven's hair and back and arms and waist, holding him close and rocking him, bunched together here on this vodka-stained kitchen floor and Steven crying now, finally, letting it all out.

"Why do they all leave me?" Steven hiccoughs on a sob, making Brendan squeeze his eyes shut at the agony there. "Everyone I ever love…everyone leaves me…"

"I'm sorry," he says, uselessly. So useless. "I'm sorry."

He doesn't know who he's apologising for, or why, only that he has to.

::: :::

He finally gets Steven to bed some hour or so later. He'd stayed with him on the kitchen floor for a while, just holding him, letting him cry. Then they'd got up and Brendan had put the kettle on and made Steven sit at the table with a cup of tea while he cleaned up the broken glass.

Steven's distant with him, of course he is; Brendan's not going to read anything into it. But he can barely wrap his mind around how different things are between them now, when just a few hours ago things were full of so much promise.

He doesn't want to think about what this might mean for them, if this situation has jolted Steven into a different decision. Brendan's not self-centred enough to make any of this about him. But it doesn't change the facts.

Steven got close to Manny because he became an alcoholic. And he became an alcoholic because Brendan left him. And Steven couldn't be with Manny when he died because Brendan—the reason for all of this—was fucking him in a hotel room.

Brendan wouldn't blame him if he never wanted to see him again.

He sleeps beside Steven, off and on, not quite able to drift off completely. He doesn't touch Steven in the bed, leaves space between them, lets Steven decide if he wants to come close. He doesn't, and Brendan wakes up some time later to an empty bed.

He finds Steven in the kitchen, hugging that housemate of his. There are no words exchanged between the two of them, just two people holding each other. The housemate glances up with stormy eyes at Brendan's presence but he says nothing, and Brendan leaves them to it.

There's no place for him there.

::: :::

When he drives Steven to Linda's the next day, Steven stops him from getting out of the car. "I'm fine," he says, turning in his seat to look Brendan in the eye. It feels like the first time he's properly looked at him since everything went south. "I've taken up enough of your time with all this."

Brendan nearly scoffs, but keeps it in check. "I don't mind." What he should say is _I want to support you_ but the words freeze in his throat. Chances are, Steven doesn't want his support. Doesn't want anything from him at all.

There's a desperate feeling of clinging onto something that's rapidly slipping away from him and he has no idea what to do about it.

Steven gives him a weak smile and a brief grasp of his knee before he climbs out of the car and walks away. With a sigh, Brendan starts the engine and prepares to leave him, catching sight of Amy getting out of a car farther down the street and approaching Linda's house. She's got a smile for him when she spots him sitting there, and he lifts his fingers off the top of the steering wheel in a wave.

He goes back to the hotel, at a total loss as to what to do next. He's half convinced housekeeping will have cleared out his room after his vanishing act two days ago, but he finds all his stuff still in place and when he calls down to reception to check his messages, no one mentions his absence.

He passes time with a shower and shave, tidying up his room, watching TV, all the while keeping his phone close and waiting for something, anything.

What if Steven never contacts him again? What if that was the end of it, right there in the car, and Brendan did nothing?

His fears are alleviated slightly when he eventually gets a message—

_Can you come pick me up?_

—and he's out the room and in the car so quickly he feels a little embarrassed with himself. But he's all too eager to hold onto this, to what they managed to create and rekindle in the past few days. He only hopes Steven feels the same.

The first thing he notices when he pulls up outside Linda's is that Steven looks brighter. He's got some colour back in his face, and his smile for Brendan after he gets in the car is real and warm. Powerful hope washes through him as Steven says, "Hi," and leans over and kisses him, briefly, on the corner of his mouth.

He blinks. Makes an attempt to keep his expression smooth.

"Where to?"

Steven takes a deep breath. "The hotel," he says decisively, sitting back and buckling up. "I just wanna get away from everything for a while."

Brendan nods, turns the key in the ignition. "You're looking a bit better," he says mildly, and gets another smile in return.

It's something.

::: :::

"Linda's selling the restaurant."

They're at the table in Brendan's hotel room, drinking tea. Brendan's not dared touch him since they got back, but Steven seems more open to him now. More talkative. Warmer. That terrifying closed-off barrier from the night before now conspicuously absent.

"She was really apologetic about it," Steven continues, "but she hasn't really got any other choice."

"That's understandable." He risks it—reaches across the table and lays his hand upon Steven's.

Steven looks up at him, doesn't refuse the touch, and Brendan adds, "You're a great chef, Steven. You'll get another job."

"I don't even care about that right now," Steven says, and then he turns his hand over, palm to palm, his fingers caressing a line across the pulse point in Brendan's wrist.

Brendan lets them sit like that for a moment, relishing the touch, this sign of hope. Then he shifts to the seat beside Steven, lifts Steven's hand to his mouth to press a kiss against the back of his knuckles. "Why don't we go out and do something?" he says into Steven's skin before lowering his hand and cradling it in both of his own like it's delicate, running the pads of his thumbs over Steven's fingers. "Take your mind off things for a while."

"No, I just wanna…" Steven shakes his head before tipping forward suddenly, resting his forehead against Brendan's shoulder and breathing steadily. Instinct has Brendan wrapping an arm around him. "Let's just stay here, together."

"Okay." He presses a kiss to the top of Steven's head and surreptitiously breathes in his scent. If he could stay like this for the rest of the night—Steven leaning on him, seeking his comfort—he'd sleep soundly. But they're interrupted only moments later by the phone ringing.

With muttered apology, Brendan peels away from Steven and goes to answer the phone. "Yeah?" he says on a sigh, glancing over at Steven. He's sat there watching him, the hint of a smile on his face.

The boy's grieving, but he doesn't look broken, and Brendan sends a silent thanks to anyone listening.

"Mr Brady, sir, there's a courier down here with a parcel for you. I'm afraid he needs your signature."

He knows instantly what that's about. "Thanks, I'll be right there." After hanging up, he walks back over to Steven and cards his fingers through his soft hair. "Mitzeee's sent over some of my clothes she got from my flat in the village before the place got cleared out." He's talking quietly, soothingly, and Steven leans into the touch as Brendan traces fingertips down his cheek. "I have to go downstairs a minute and sign for them."

"Okay," Steven says, nodding. "Can I order room service? Haven't eaten all day."

"Yeah, get whatever you want. Back in a minute."

He goes down and collects the package, feeling as though a great weight has lifted off his shoulders. He even tips the courier.

When he returns to his room, hefting the heavy box in his arms, his good mood evaporates in an instant.

Steven's stood in the middle of the room with his arms crossed. And he looks furious.

Dread floods Brendan's system. "What?"

It takes Steven a moment to answer. His jaw is clenched, his cheeks flushed with anger, and worst of all—his eyes, so warm and inviting not ten minutes ago, are now full of heartwrenching betrayal.

"Went looking for the room service menu," he says through his clenched jaw. "Found this instead." He reaches behind him on the bed and holds up a document for Brendan's inspection.

Brendan's heart plummets down into his gut.

"That's just something Jim gave me with a load of other stuff," he says in a rush. "It doesn't mean anything. I've barely even looked at it."

"No?" Steven's eyebrow lifts. "Then why is Mercedes McQueen calling to discuss your interest in buying the place?"

"Mercedes—what?"

"Your phone rang while you were downstairs, so I answered it." He nods at the bedside table, where the offending item now sits. "Didn't think it would be a big deal. It's not like it'll ever be owt dodgy now, is it?"

"Steven—" Panic is rising in him, overwhelming his thoughts and reactions.

Steven wasn't supposed to find out like this.

"Mercedes McQueen," Steven says, as if the name is a surprise to him. "Dead shocked, she was, to receive your message. Called you back right away. Wants to talk about your _interest_ in buying the club back."

Brendan shakes his head desperately, takes a step forward. "It's not how it looks." He's still carrying this stupid box like an idiot, but Steven's next words distract him from his intention to put it down.

"Looks to me like you're already planning your escape back to Hollyoaks. When you know full well I'm never moving back there." He bites out a painful, bitter laugh, and carelessly drops the sale document back on the bed. When he next speaks, the anger is filtered through with the hurt he was trying to hide. "This—this was never your future, was it? That club is. Big Man Brendan Brady and his little village empire, King of Hollyoaks. If they weren't scared of you before, they'll be terrified now. Just how you like it, eh?"

"Steven, for Christ's sake, will you let me explain?" Brendan doesn't mean to snap, but he can't help it, and it's enough to spring Steven into action.

"No," he says, a terrifying decisiveness in his tone. "I've listened to enough of your lies." He steps close to Brendan, looks into his eyes. His whole expression is now shockingly blank.

He's put his barriers back in place.

"Goodbye, Brendan."

Then he pushes past Brendan and leaves.

"Steven, wait—ow, shit, _fuck_." Brendan's dropped the box in his haste to stop him, and it's landed right on his foot. He hops on the spot for a moment, grimacing with the pain, before pushing it aside and running out into the hall. "_Wait,_ goddammit."

He gets a hand on Steven's shoulder, his grip firm and desperate.

"Get _off_ me!"

"Listen to me. Listen to me!"

Steven hesitates in his escape, turns to look at him. The glint in his eyes says this better be good.

Brendan takes a breath. "I was never gonna move back there. I had no intention of it. What I did have was half a thought to buying the place and putting a manager in there. It has a lot of sentimental value for me."

Steven looks vaguely horrified. "It's where your dad was killed! Where you were almost—"

"It's also where I met you," Brendan says, and the words echo around them in this empty corridor. Steven's face washes free of everything and he stares at him. Brendan can see the thick swallow.

"And Mitzeee," Brendan continues, pressing his advantage now, the moment of attention he's managed to capture. "Where me and Cheryl rebuilt our relationship... That club gave me the start of so many things I love. You have to understand, Steven, for as much as Hollyoaks village holds a lot of bad memories for you, it's one of the only places in the whole world where I have _good_ memories. All of it—you and Cheryl and everything—it all outweighs the bad for me. That's where I found out who I was, and who I wanted to be. It's where I found _you_. You can't really blame me for wanting to hold on to a bit of it."

Steven's next swallow is audible, and it takes him a moment to say anything. He licks his lips first, and then speaks with a voice scratchy with suppressed emotion. "Sounds like it's your home."

"No." Brendan steps forward and takes Steven's face in his hands. Steven doesn't fight him. "Steven, you're my home. I don't have to buy the club. I don't have to do anything you don't want me to."

Steven shakes his head, but he doesn't dislodge Brendan's hold on him. "I can't make any decisions for you. It's your life."

"It is, and you know who I want to spend it with." He bends his knees to look Steven directly in the eye and drops his voice to a near-whisper. His heart is still hammering, how close he came to losing this man _again_. And he's so tired. So tired of always doing the wrong thing.

"But you should also know one thing, Steven—I'm not gonna keep begging. I've laid everything on the line for you and I can't keep trying to convince you." He traces thumbs along Steven's cheekbones, watches emotion storm in his eyes. "You either want this or you don't. There's only so far I can go without getting anything back."

Something about his words resonates with Steven. Brendan can see it.

"Brendan…"

"You've been through a lot the past couple of days," Brendan says. He feels guilty all of a sudden, pushing all of this on Steven at a time like this. "I'm not expecting you to have your head together now. Let's just… I don't know." He looks around futilely, as if expecting to find inspiration in the wallpaper. "What d'you wanna do? You wanna go home?"

"No," Steven says. He licks his lips again, and he lifts his hands to hold Brendan's wrists in a loose grip. "I'm sorry. I should've just asked instead of—"

"It's fine, I can see why you did. You're not gonna scare me away just because you—"

Steven kisses him. It comes as such a shock that Brendan lets out a whimper that's brushed away by Steven's tongue sweeping into his mouth. And then Brendan's knees are weakening under the force of it, under the weight of Steven's fervour, and he slumps back against the wall, takes Steven with him.

It's a kiss that feels definitive. It feels like a choice. And Brendan's head spins with it.

Steven breaks the kiss a few moments later, and he looks at Brendan with dark eyes full of intent. "Let's go back inside," he murmurs, pushing his hips forward. There's no mistaking his need.

"I don't think you want to do this now."

"I do." He drags hands up Brendan's chest, fingers hard and pressing, almost clawing at him. He's shaking. "And not because of Manny, or Mercedes, or anyone else—but because I do. Because I want you." He fists his hands in the front of Brendan's shirt, steps even closer to remove the last remaining gap between them and tips their foreheads together, his eyes closing and his breath a shuddery whisper against Brendan's lips. "And because you keep fighting for me and loving me even when I—"

"Shh, stop, it's okay." He kisses Steven again, tips his face forward and captures Steven's lips and chases his tongue, hands spanning the full width of Steven's back and his entire chest expanding with the swell of love he's desperate to press into this man's skin.

Steven ends the kiss only to whisper against his lips. "Still can't believe you came back for me."

"I was always coming back for you, Steven."

"Do you really love me this much? Still?" He sounds awed by it, as if he still doesn't get it, still doesn't understand quite how completely he fills Brendan's whole world.

"Nothing in this life will ever make me stop."

"Brendan," Steven says, leaning back enough to get his hands on Brendan's face. "Look at me." When Brendan does, he finds Steven's eyes glistening. "I love you too. As much as I ever did. I just didn't—I was scared." He pulls Brendan into a sudden, fierce hug, clinging onto him with all the strength of a man desperate to never let go. "Please don't ever leave me again."

"Never," Brendan whispers into his ear. "I promise you."

::: :::

Manny's wake leaves Ste with an ache in his chest, but something about it makes him feel better about it all. Something to do with getting to say his final goodbyes, he expects.

He's watching Brendan talking quietly to Linda in the corner of her living room when Jamie approaches, and he offers him a smile.

"How are you holding up?" Jamie asks.

"I'm fine. Feel dead bad for Linda."

"You'll still keep her company, though, won't you? Pop 'round for your dinner?"

"'Course, yeah," Ste says, nodding. "She's like family to me."

They lapse into a comfortable silence, sipping their soft drinks, before Jamie's voice startles him out of his thoughts.

"So this Brendan. Suppose I have to get used to having an actual murderer in my life then?"

Ste huffs a laugh. "Looks like it."

"As long as he makes you happy, I guess." His tone is grudging.

"Get to know him." He nudges Jamie with his elbow. "You'll like him."

"I like my limbs where they are, thanks," Jamie says with a grimace.

Ste doesn't know what compels him to do this, but the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. Maybe it's something to do with trusting this man so completely.

Maybe it's to do with not wanting him to think badly of Brendan.

"I'll tell you a secret. You can't tell anyone."

"Go on," Jamie says cautiously, narrowing his eyes.

"He didn't really kill the person he went to prison for."

Jamie blinks. "What?"

"He was covering for someone else," Ste says with a nod, glancing around to ensure no one's listening.

"Why would he do that?"

Ste shrugs. "It's the kind of thing he does. Stupid things for the people he loves."

"He confessed to a murder he didn't commit," Jamie says slowly, looking as though he can't quite make the dots connect in his head, "just so someone else didn't have to go to prison?"

"Yep." Ste puts his glass on the sideboard and claps a hand on Jamie's shoulder. "Do me a favour though, yeah?"

"What?"

"Don't google him," Ste says, and then walks away from him.

"What—why? What's it gonna say? Was he an escort? Into bestiality? Ste, wait—I want to know!"

Amy catches up with him later, finds him perusing Manny's record collection in the bookcase beside the TV. She smiles at him before glancing over at Brendan.

"It's official now, is it?" she says.

"Me and Brendan? Yeah, think so."

"You think so?"

He gives an awkward roll of his shoulders. "We haven't really talked about what's next but we're together, and we're staying together." It feels good to say it, finally.

Feels incredible to know it's the absolute truth.

"I'm happy for you," she says, and he so desperately hopes she means it. They could really do with her on their side. "Both of you. I've got a good feeling about it this time."

He smiles. "Me too."

"I'll be walking you up the aisle next," she says, and then, before Ste can react to _that_ prediction: "Leah, put that glass down. You are _not_ having wine—"

He meets Brendan by the drinks table some ten minutes later, and they share a smile over the bottles of Coke and fizzy water. No alcohol at this wake.

"Hey," Brendan says gently.

"Hi. You ready to go?"

"If you are."

"I'll just say bye to Linda," he says, looking around for her. "Meet you at the car."

She looks so tired, more so now that he's seeing her up close. They've not had time to speak all day—she's been busy with relatives and friends, and he's tried staying out of her way, not wanting to be a nuisance. She takes him in a warm, tight hug now though, the frailty of her body in his hold making him wince.

"Ste, love," she says when she pulls back, hands resting on his upper arms. "You going?"

"Yeah, unless—" He glances about the room, at the litter created by so many guests crammed into such a small room. "You need me to stay, help you clean up?"

"Oh no, we've got all that covered. You'll stay in touch, won't you?" She's nodding encouragingly, and Ste can detect the hidden plea in her eyes. Despite this room full of her nearest and dearest, she's afraid of being alone now. "Come see me?"

He smiles, takes one of her hands and gives it a squeeze. "You'll be begging to get rid of me."

"I doubt that," she says, pulling him into another hug. "Thank you for everything. And keep going to the meetings."

"I will, I promise." He breaks the hug, tucks her hair behind her ear. Her face feels worryingly cold, and a part of him wonders if she'll even be able to hold on without her husband. He's heard of it before. People dying of broken hearts.

He swallows away the lump in his throat, but his voice still comes out cracked. "I'll see you soon, okay?"

"He really loved you, you know?" she says in response, looking him directly in the eye. "You were a son to him. To both of us."

He takes a moment to himself in the bathroom—a shed tear or two, in private—before going outside to meet Brendan, finding him leaning back against the passenger side door, top buttons of his shirt undone, sunglasses on. He looks like something out of a movie and Ste's blood warms at the sight, chasing away his melancholy.

"You look well sexy in that suit."

Brendan smirks. "Not the most appropriate time, Steven."

"Like you care." He steps close and puts his hands on Brendan's hips, leans up for a brief kiss.

"I need to talk to you about something," Brendan says. "Before we get in the car. In case you kick off and want to go storming away like you usually do."

Ste narrows his eyes. "I swear to god, Brendan—"

"It's nothing bad."

"Go on then," he says on a sigh, bracing for trouble.

"I was talking to Linda." Brendan's speaking carefully, quietly, and it makes Ste hold his breath for a reason he doesn't quite understand. "How about instead of buying the club in Hollyoaks, I buy Manny's restaurant?"

Ste stares at him. "You don't know anything about running a restaurant."

"No, but you do."

"Not really."

"So hire a manager."

He breaks away from Brendan, head bowed. "You don't have to do me any favours, Brendan."

"I'm not," Brendan says, pulling him back in. "I'm giving us a foundation. For our future."

Something about his expression, his tone, the look in his eyes—it all serves to make Ste's tummy flip over and his heart stutter and Amy's words reverberate through his head. "D'you wanna marry me?"

Brendan blinks at him. "What, right now?"

"No, you idiot," Ste says, giving him a gentle shove. "Just—next few months or couple of years or whatever." He feels shy all of a sudden—not quite embarrassed, but unsure. "Is that…is it something you can see yourself doing?"

He can't quite meet Brendan's eye, but Brendan handles the problem for him. Presses a finger beneath Ste's chin and tips his face up to look at him.

"It was something I saw myself doing even before I went to prison."

Ste has to swallow down another lump in his throat now, one full of a different emotion, the kind of emotion that makes him want to grin and laugh and throw his arms around this man. But he manages to keep his composure, just about. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll marry you tomorrow if you like."

"All right," Ste says, tutting, a grin forcing its way onto his face despite his efforts. "Don't get soppy."

"You just proposed and you're telling me not to get soppy."

"It wasn't a proposal. It was just…seeing if you were open to the idea."

"So you didn't just ask me to marry you?"

"I asked if it's something you would want to do."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"No."

"Oh."

Ste rolls his eyes at him, gives him a quick kiss, and pulls out of his hold, allowing Brendan to push away from the door and walk around the car.

As Brendan's unlocking the door, he looks across the hood at Ste, a playful gleam in his eye. "Steven?"

"What?"

"Will you marry me?"

A laugh bubbles out of Ste before he can stop it, his face burning. "Shut up."

::: :::

**Epilogue**

"Who," Jamie says, collaring Ste and breathing alarmingly hot into his ear, "is _that_?"

Ste leans away from him, before looking in the direction that's so thoroughly caught Jamie's attention. He snorts. "Mitzeee. You've got no chance."

Jamie licks his lips. "We'll see," he mutters under his breath, looking frighteningly determined.

"Really," comes Brendan's voice from behind them, making Jamie squeak as he jumps. "No chance."

Jamie turns to look at him, eyes narrowing despite the way he steps closer to Ste for protection. "You don't scare me anymore," he says, making Ste laugh. Even now, Jamie still won't let Ste leave him alone with Brendan.

Brendan raises an eyebrow. "It's not me you should be scared of." He leans into Jamie's space, drops his voice, appearing oblivious to the way Jamie rears back. "She'll eat you alive, kid."

Jamie gulps. "You—" he says, voice cracking. He clears his throat. "You underestimate me."

It makes Ste smile. "Go on then," he says, nudging Jamie. "Go prove him wrong." The funny thing is, he's got a sneaking suspicion he might. Ste didn't miss the second glance Mitzeee gave Jamie earlier in the evening.

"Yeah," says Jamie, brow furrowed. Then he apparently comes to a decision, drawing himself up to his full height and puffing out his chest, looking across at Mitzeee again. "Yeah, I will." Then he takes a deep breath and begins his approach. "Missy!"

"Mitzeee," Ste calls after him.

"Mitzeee!"

Ste laughs and turns back to Brendan, lets the man put an arm around his shoulder and pull him into his side.

"She was saying about maybe moving down this way with Phoenix and Maxine," Brendan murmurs, watching Jamie trying to get her attention across the room. "Reckons the kid needs more family around him."

"Yeah, she was on at me about becoming the hostess of this place."

He still can't believe he owns his own restaurant—Brendan put his name on the deeds and everything. But he supposes he has to start believing it now, stood here on its re-launch night, all his friends and family around him to celebrate the occasion.

His attention drifts to Linda sitting at a table in the corner and he smiles. She looks better, and he's so glad she managed to come tonight. He didn't think she'd ever be able to step foot in this place again, not now she can no longer see her husband working away behind the counter. But there she is, her expression relaxed and attentive as Leah rambles onto her about something or other—boys, knowing Leah, already heading down that path. Far too young, Brendan reckons, and he's already managed to scare off one little lad when he went to collect her from school and found the two of them chatting privately in the playground. Just what Leah needs—three overprotective fathers.

"I do remember you," she'd said to Brendan one afternoon not long after Manny's funeral. She and Lucas were over at Ste's for the weekend, and Brendan had been spending most of his nights there while looking for his own place.

He looked at her with surprise. "Yeah?"

"You used to read me stories," she said with a nod, and Ste watched as emotion washed over Brendan's face.

"That's right, yeah," he said, his voice tight.

"And you sang to me once. Can't remember the song, but—"

"Katy Perry," Ste piped up, grinning, startling a laugh out of Brendan.

"Of all the memories…" he grumbled, but Ste knew he wasn't really embarrassed. Too focused on hiding the way Leah's words had got him choked up.

"Hey," Brendan says now, handing Ste a glass of non-alcoholic wine. "To the future."

Ste smiles at him, taps his glass against Brendan's. "The future."

After they each take a sip, Brendan tightens his arm around Ste's shoulders and pulls him in tighter. There's a fierceness to his hold that warms Ste from the inside.

"We're gonna make it, you know," Brendan says, almost whispers, as they stand there gazing out at their restaurant full of friends and family and happy customers.

"I know we are." He looks up at Brendan, finds Brendan already gazing down at him with the softest, most affection look in his eyes. "Love you."

They meet in the middle for a gentle kiss, which Brendan breaks to murmur, "_Now_ will you marry me?"

Ste laughs against his lips, stomach twisting with excitement and adoration and overwhelming happiness. "Yeah, all right."

"Good."

::: :::

End.


End file.
